i      v    EVASION 


EUGENIA  BROOKS  FROTH  INGHAM 


O 


/ 


OF  CALIF.   LIBRARY,   LOS  AflGELE 


©upnia  brooks 


THE  EVASION.     i2rao,  $1.50. 

THE  TURN  OF  THE  ROAD,     izmo,  $1.50. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE   EVASION 


The  Evasion 


BY 


Eugenia  Brooks  Frothingham 

Author  of  "  The  Turn  of  the  Road  " 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
te$S,  <£ambrib0e 

1906 


COPYRIGHT   1906  BY  EUGENIA  BROOKS  FROTHINGHAM 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  March  zqob 


THIRD    IMPRESSION 


CONTENTS 

PROLOGUE 3 

PART  I 

I.  THE  FATES  IN  CONFERENCE 13 

II.  A  WOMAN  OF  THE  WORLD 23 

III.  GLADYS  BEGINS  HER  EDUCATION      .        .        .        .30 

IV.  THE  DEBUTANTE 39 

V.  THE  SOCIALIST 48 

VI.  ATHEIST  AND  MYSTIC 57 

VII.  THE  LOVER 65 

VIII.  DICK  AND  ARTHUR 70 

IX.  TRUANCY 79 

X.  A  GAME  OF  POKER 83 

XI.  FEET  OF  CLAY 89 

XII.  ARTHUR  DISQUALIFIED 96 

XIII.  MOONLIGHT 104 

XIV.  QUIXOTISM 108 

PART  II 

I.  A  RETURN 121 

II.  OVER  THE  TEA-CUPS 129 

III.  SISTERS 137 

IV.  THE  GAME  145 


2129522 


vi  CONTENTS 

V.  ARTHUR'S  WOOING 154 

VI.  A  MEETING  AT  MIDNIGHT         ....      164 

VII.  ANOTHER  MEETING 171 

VIII.  AFTERMATH 182 

IX.  FLIGHT 191 

X.  SPRING 197 

XI.  A  WOMAN'S  DECISION 204 

XII.  A  MAN'S  RESOLVE 211 

XIII.  UNCHARTED  WATERS 224 

XIV.  LAYING  THE  CORNER-STONE    ....      235 
XV.  HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 248 

XVI.  ALPHONSE  DE  CHAVANNES       ....      263 
XVII.  THE  PROFESSOR  is  TROUBLED     ....  276 

XVIII.  AN  AUGUST  NIGHT 285 

XIX.  AN  AWAKENING 299 

XX.  REALIZATION 313 

XXI.  THE  PLACE  OF  MEMORIES 323 

XXII.  THE  ORDEAL  OF  GLADYS         ....      335 

XXIII.  ARTHUR'S  RETURN 351 

XXIV.  DIANA 358 

XXV.  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW    .        .        .        .366 

XXVI.  BURNT  PAPER 378 

XXVII.  ON  THE  CLIFF 390 

XXVIII.  ON  THE  SANDS 395 

XXIX.  RENUNCIATION  .  407 


PROLOGUE 


PROLOGUE 


T 


HE  summer  world  was  full  of  beauty,  beauty  that 
mounted  daily  as  the  sap  in  the  trees,  as  the  tides  under 
midsummer  moons.  Wealth  was  flung  upon  wealth, 
beauty  upon  beauty,  glory  upon  glory,  and  Marian 
Copeland,  to  whom  these  things  were  as  the  life  of 
her  soul,  lay  dying. 

The  accident  had  been  so  swift  and  terrible  that 
neighbors  forgot  the  disapproval  with  which  they  had 
always  regarded  her  irresponsibility,  her  pagan  love 
of  nature  and  beauty,  and  her  lack  of  principle  as 
evinced  in  the  bringing  up  of  her  boy,  with  whom  since 
her  husband's  death  she  had  been  more  like  a  child 
than  a  mother.  They  spoke  of  her  now  with  awestruck 
voices,  wondering  how  she  could  die  on  a  day  of  so 
much  beauty,  how  she  could  die  at  all,  —  she  for  whom 
death  seemed  so  much  too  still  and  solemn. 

Yet  Marian  Copeland  was  to  die,  and  on  this  day, 
full  as  it  was  of  the  beauty  that  she  loved. 

"  She  will  not  last  till  evening,"  said  the  great  spe 
cialist  who  had  been  summoned  from  Boston. 

"  Then  I  suppose  that  some  one  must  tell  the  boy," 
suggested  the  specialist's  assistant. 

But  the  famous  man  was  indifferent  upon  the  subject. 
He  was,  in  fact,  unaware  of  the  existence  of  a  boy,  and 

3 


PROLOGUE 

felt  that  on  general  principles  the  less  heard  of  boys 
the  better.  The  assistant  might  do  as  he  liked,  he  said, 
provided  the  child  could  be  kept  from  making  a  dis 
turbance  ;  and  then  he  got  into  his  buggy  and  drove 
away. 

The  young  physician  left  in  charge  of  the  situation 
stood  for  a  moment  in  the  sunshine.  He  had  an  acute 
recollection  of  the  little  figure  he  had  found  the  night 
before,  lying  asleep  outside  the  door  of  the  sick  woman's 
chamber,  and  of  the  dark  eyes  that  had  questioned 
him  as  the  boy  started  into  consciousness.  He  was  not 
an  attractive  boy,  being  neither  pretty  nor  particularly 
clean.  In  the  suddenness  and  terror  of  accident  no 
one  had  thought  to  wash  or  undress  him,  so  that  his 
face  was  still  stained  by  the  blueberries  picked  and  eaten 
the  afternoon  before  by  him  and  the  young  mother, 
little  more  than  a  child  herself,  who  now  lay  dying  in 
the  glory  of  the  summer  day. 

"  Can  I  go  in  to  her  now?"  he  had  asked;  and  at 
intervals  during  the  morning  he  had  repeated  the  ques 
tion  with  the  maddening  persistency  of  children.  When 
denied  he  had  gone  quietly  away,  for  they  told  him  any 
noise  would  disturb  her.  But  as  the  day  wore  on  his 
questions  were  put  with  increasing  frequency,  and  after 
each  denial  there  was  a  longer  pause  before  he  turned 
away,  and  during  which  he  fixed  upon  the  one  in  author 
ity  a  look  of  inquiry  and  deepening  suspicion. 

The  young  doctor  was  a  coward,  as  all  men  are  when 
confronted  with  emotional  responsibility,  and  while  he 
deliberated  as  to  the  course  he  had  best  pursue,  the 

4 


PKOLOGUE 

child  stood  again  before  him.  His  feet  were  bare,  and 
he  carried  his  boots  in  his  hand.  By  daylight  the  blue 
berry  stains  about  his  lips  were  especially  prominent, 
and  the  knees  of  his  trousers  bore  signs  of  yesterday's 
frolic. 

"Can  I  go  in  to  her  now?"  he  asked.  "I  will  be 
very  quiet.  I  have  taken  off  my  boots  on  purpose." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  not  go  in  yet,"  said  the  doc 
tor,  anxious  to  gain  time,  and  hoping  that  the  little 
questioner  would  go  away  as  he  had  gone  before. 

But  this  time  he  did  not  go  away.  His  bare  feet  were 
planted  firmly  in  the  dust,  his  eyes  were  more  than 
usually  suspicious,  and  the  pause  more  than  usually 
long. 

"  Why  not?  "  he  asked  finally.  "  Why  not,  can't  I 
go  in  to  her  ?  " 

"  Because  you  would  disturb  her." 

There  was  another  pause,  and  another  scrutiny. 

"  I  have  never  disturbed  her,  never  once  since  I  was 
born,"  he  persisted. 

"  And  how  do  you  know  that?  "  asked  the  doctor,  in 
a  light  and  cheerful  tone. 

"  Because  she  told  me  so,"  answered  the  boy  gravely. 

There  is  a  power  in  the  unconsciousness  and  direct 
ness  of  children  which  the  man  may  envy ;  and  it  was 
this  power,  as  much  as  a  distressing  duty,  which  made 
the  young  doctor  exceedingly  uncomfortable.  He  was 
conscious  of  distinct  relief  when  the  boy  turned  away, 
and,  stepping  softly,  disappeared  into  the  house.  So 
little  noise  did  the  bare  feet  make  that  the  nurse 

5 


PROLOGUE 

was  not  aware  of  him  till  he  stood  by  the  bed ;  and  the 
sick  woman's  consciousness,  struggling  through  fever 
and  opium,  woke,  as  with  a  cry  his  mother  caught  him 
in  her  arms. 

"  Dickie !  Dickie ! "  The  voice  was  thick  and  broken. 
"  Dickie,  I  am  going  to  die  —  I  am  too  young  to  die  — 
too  young ! "  And  then  there  were  burning  kisses,  long, 
laboring  sobs,  her  cheek  hot  and  tear-stained  against 
his,  her  finger-tips  wandering  over  his  brow,  his  eyelids, 
his  lips,  choking  words  of  tenderness,  and  always  the 
blind  kisses,  clinging,  long-drawn,  delirious.  In  the 
confusion  that  followed  her  inevitable  collapse,  Dickie 
was  hurried  from  the  room. 

There  are  many  who  pass  from  youth  to  middle  age 
before  receiving  the  revelation  that  life  can  be  a  great 
and  a  terrible  thing  ;  there  are  more  who  never  receive 
it ;  but  to  Dickie  the  knowledge  was  given  while  he  was 
yet  a  child,  and  stood  in  his  mother's  garden  knowing 
that  she  was  going  to  die. 

To  die  —  she  was  going  to  die  !  She  was  going  to 
leave  him  alone ;  and  Dickie  flung  himself  on  the 
ground  in  agony. 

Suffering  does  not  measure  time,  so  it  might  have 
been  a  moment  or  a  year  before  he  heard  the  voice  of 
his  nurse,  and  his  head  was  drawn  into  her  arms. 

"  My  darlin' !  my  darlin' !  "  She  was  rocking  to  and 
fro  in  her  grief.  "  She  won't  be  for  to  die !  she  won't 
be  for  to  lave  ye.  Pray,  dearie,  pray !  They  say  the 
Lord  listens  to  the  prayers  of  little  children.  Pray  to 
the  Blessed  Virgin,  the  Blessed  Mother,  who  knows  the 

6 


PROLOGUE 

pain  of  children  —  ah!  what  am  I  after  sayin'?  She 
would  never  learn  ye  to  pray  to  our  Mother  in  heaven, 
and  if  I  learned  ye  now  she  might  be  too  angered  to 
stay  wid  us.  Pray  wid  the  Lord's  Prayer  she  taught  ye 
wid  her  own  lips ;  but  pray  low,  dearie,  pray  in  a  whis 
per,  for  she  's  sleepin'  now,  and  it 's  the  sleep  that  will 
do  her  good,  and  the  blessed  Lord  and  all  the  saints 
will  hear  if  ye  so  much  as  whisper." 

"  The  Lord  listens  to  the  prayers  of  little  children." 
The  words  sank  deep  into  Dickie's  soul. 

"Tell  me  about  God,  mamma,"  he  had  asked  her 
once.  And  she  had  said  that  no  one  knew  much  about 
Him,  except  that  He  was  good. 

"  God  is  good,  and  listens  to  the  prayers  of  little 
children."  Then  surely  —  surely  she  would  not  die. 

Under  an  apple-tree,  far  away  from  his  mother's 
chamber,  so  that  he  should  not  disturb  her,  Dickie 
prayed. 

"  Oh,  God,  save  her,  save  her ! "  he  whispered, 
kneeling  in  a  huddled  little  heap,  his  head  almost  on 
the  ground.  Above  and  about  him  was  the  quiet  sum 
mer  stillness,  a  golden  stillness,  broken  only  by  the 
hum  of  insects  and  occasional  splashes  of  music  from 
a  song-sparrow. 

"  There  are  so  many  mothers  in  heaven,"  prayed 
Dickie.  "  You  cannot  need  her  up  there,  there  are  so 
many  mothers  in  heaven  —  and  I  have  only  her.  Let 
her  stay,  and  I  will  be  good  —  oh,  I  will  be  good  !  " 

Now  and  again  the  whispers  were  interrupted  by 
sobs,  the  need  of  silence  was  forgotten  in  the  passion 

7 


PROLOGUE 

of  appeal,  and  then  he  would  cower  down  in  terror, 
pressing  his  hands  to  his  mouth.  He  sobbed  with  harsh, 
gasping  sobs  too  heavy  for  his  small  frame,  so  that 
finally  a  merciful  exhaustion  came  to  him,  and  with 
exhaustion  quiet  came  also,  and  the  dawn  of  faith.  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  branches  above,  that  were  full  of 
shadow  and  sunlight. 

"  God  is  good,"  repeated  the  child.  "  He  cannot  let 
her  die  when  I  have  begged  so  hard." 

Over  the  meadows  floated  the  evening  song  of  the 
wood-thrush,  serene,  lofty,  remote  from  the  passions 
of  men.  Dickie  felt  suddenly  that  all  was  well,  not  as 
God  might  will,  but  as  he  wished,  and  he  lay  on  his 
back  with  his  face  to  the  sky  and  his  arms  outstretched, 
while  the  song  of  the  thrush  came  to  him  again  and 
again  through  the  evening  calm. 

"  The  Lord  listens  to  the  prayers  of  little  children," 
whispered  Dickie,  after  which  there  was  a  smile  on  his 
lips,  and  he  slept. 

When  he  woke  the  world  had  grown  dark.  He  was 
shivering,  and  found  on  standing  up  that  he  must 
steady  himself  against  the  tree,  for  it  was  many  hours 
since  he  had  eaten.  But  he  was  not  unhappy,  for  he 
knew  that  his  prayer  had  been  answered. 

The  house  was  still  and  dark,  but  a  faint  light  shone 
from  his  mother's  room  into  the  garden. 

He  crept  up  the  staircase,  groping  his  way,  and 
obliged  to  sit  down  now  and  then  because  of  a  dizzy 
feeling  in  his  head.  At  these  times  the  stillness  of  the 

8 


PROLOGUE 

thick  dark  was  like  a  presence,  and  at  any  other  time 
he  might  have  been  afraid. 

At  the  head  of  the  staircase  a  faint  shaft  of  light 
came  from  the  half-open  door  of  his  mother's  room. 
Very  softly  the  bare  feet  took  him  to  the  door,  and  he 
pushed  it  wide  open. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  found  him  lying  senseless 
across  the  threshold. 

After  the  funeral  the  presiding  clergyman  felt  it 
necessary  to  take  Dickie  aside. 

"  Why  did  you  not  kneel  with  me  when  the  others 
knelt?"  he  asked. 

"  Were  n't  you  praying  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"  Of  course  we  were  praying." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Dickie.  "  That  is  why  I  did  not 
kneel."  He  looked  at  the  clergyman  with  steady,  un- 
childlike  eyes.  "  I  will  never  ask  God  for  anything 
again,"  he  added. 


PART  I 


THE  EVASION 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    FATES    IN    CONFERENCE 

HE  fact  that  he  was  a  notoriously  bad  boy  is  rather 
in  his  favor  than  otherwise,"  said  Mrs.  Stanwood.  "  I 
shall  certainly  ask  him."  And  Richard  Copeland's 
name  and  address  went  down  in  her  notebook.  "  His 
guardian  is  one  of  my  oldest  friends,"  she  continued, 
"  and  I  can  hardly  refuse  to  receive  his  ward  at  my 
house  because  he  refused  to  say  his  prayers  at  a  funeral 
when  he  was  ten  years  old.  Why  was  he  expelled  from 
St.  Matthew's  school?" 

"  Because  he  would  not  go  to  chapel.  He  said  the 
service  was  wicked,  and  the  Nicene  Creed  worse  than 
anything  in  paganism.  I  don't  blame  him  much  for 
that  myself."  And  Miss  Miranda  Lawrence,  who  was 
a  stanch  Unitarian,  stabbed  her  emery  bag  with  an 
energy  suggestive  of  her  readiness  for  combat. 

But  her  sister,  Mrs.  Stanwood,  made  no  response  to 
this  warlike  temper,  though  she  was  an  Episcopalian 
who  would  have  scorned  to  occupy  any  but  the  most 
expensive  pew  in  the  most  expensive  church  of  Boston. 

"  And  how  about  the  English  schools  ?  "  she  asked. 
13 


THE  EVASION 

"  The  same  difficulty  from  a  religious  point  of  view, 
added  to  his  unwillingness  to  stand  the  fagging.  He 
created  quite  a  scandal  in  England." 

"  A  scandal,  you  say  —  better  and  better !  "  cried 
Mrs.  Stanwood  gayly.  "  Why,  the  boy  is  sure  to  make 
a  mark  !  He  will  be  a  radical  of  some  kind,  perhaps 
even  an  anarchist,  and  he  may  found  a  new  Boston 
religion.  In  the  meantime  I  wish  him  to  be  seen  at  my 
parties." 

"  But  why  ask  him  just  when  you  are  bringing  out 
Gladys  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  said  that  I  would  bring  out  Gladys.  Wait 
till  I  have  seen  her.  You  don't  tell  me  she  is  pretty." 

"  I  have  said  that  she  is  small,  and  has  red  hair." 

"  If  you  are  small  enough  it  is  a  distinction,  and  red 
hair  is  rather  an  advantage  than  otherwise  if  you  know 
how  to  dress  for  it." 

"  Humph !  "  said  Miss  Miranda.  "  I  have  n't  encour 
aged  her  to  think  much  about  dress  so  far." 

"  We  will  change  all  that,"  said  her  sister  serenely. 

"  Which  any  one  would  feel  sure  of  to  look  at  you," 
retorted  Miss  Miranda. 

"  I  hope  so,  indeed,"  answered  Mrs.  Stanwood,  with 
great  sincerity,  and  the  subject  was  dropped.  There  was 
no  ill-feeling  between  them,  but  they  were  more  or  less 
unknown  quantities  to  each  other. 

Mrs.  Stanwood  was  a  woman  of  what  is  known  as  the 
grand  monde.  She  had  married  a  fortune  and  a  good- 
natured  man,  and  made  the  most  of  both.  For  fifteen 
years  the  best  that  Europe  could  offer  of  talent  and 

14 


THE   FATES   IN   CONFEKENCE 

aristocracy  had  met  in  her  drawing-rooms.  She  was  a  so 
cial  influence  in  London,  a  power  in  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain,  and  in  Rome  Papist  and  Royalist  had  met  in 
her  palace.  It  was  for  these  things  that  Mrs.  Stan  wood 
lived,  and  she  had  never  been  heard  to  say  that  life 
was  not  worth  the  living ;  for  there  is  a  social  talent  as 
marked  and  inevitable  as  that  for  any  of  the  arts,  and 
Mrs.  Stanwood  possessed  this  talent.  It  seemed  there 
fore  much  to  her  credit  when  she  submitted  so  grace 
fully  to  her  husband's  suddenly  announced  intention  of 
returning  to  his  own  country. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  inquiries,  "  I  am  taking 
poor  Willie  back  to  Boston.  What  am  I  going  to  do 
there  ?  Dieu  salt,  ma  chere  !  But  he  has  stayed  over 
here  for  so  long  to  please  me  that  it  is  his  turn  now, 
for  he  never  liked  Europe." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  usually  spoke  of  her  husband  as 
"  poor  Willie,"  with  an  accent  suggestive  of  kindly 
tolerance,  not  unmixed  with  pity  for  his  shortcomings, 
and  on  this  occasion  the  impression  conveyed  was  one 
of  voluntary  and  charming  willingness  to  subscribe  to 
his  unspoken  wish.  In  reality,  she  knew  by  a  certain 
expression  of  her  husband's  chin  that  his  mind  was 
made  up,  and  that  no  power  of  hers  could  unmake  it ; 
so  she  accepted  his  decision  with  the  gay  philosophy 
which  was  her  great  charm,  and  prepared  to  make  the 
best  of  it. 

It  was  true  that  Mr.  Stanwood  had  never  liked  living 
in  Europe.  He  found  it  difficult  to  remember  foreign 
names,  he  was  unable  to  cope  with  repartee,  nor  could 

15 


THE   EVASION 

he  discuss  art,  love,  temperament,  or  the  subleties  of 
European  diplomacy.  It  followed,  therefore,  that  he 
was  at  a  disadvantage  in  his  wife's  drawing-room,  and 
no  man  may  stand  this  long  and  keep  his  self-respect. 

But  it  must  not  be  thought  that  during  these  fifteen 
long  years  Mr.  Stanwood  had  been  entirely  without 
consolation.  He  was  known  as  one  of  the  most  eminent 
beetle  collectors  in  Europe,  and  in  beetles  he  found  his 
comfort  and  his  pride,  for  no  one  could  safely  contra 
dict  him  on  the  subject  of  coleopteran  specimens,  or  turn 
the  argument  into  regions  whither  he  could  not  follow. 

He  had  hoped  for  quiet  in  the  city  of  his  fathers, 
but  soon  discovered  his  mistake.  Though  he  might,  and 
often  did,  find  peace  at  his  club,  he  need  but  enter  his 
own  door  to  be  plunged  into  as  gay  if  not  so  varied  a 
social  atmosphere  as  he  had  ever  encountered  in  Europe. 
Superbly  padded  army  officers  were  lacking,  and  highly 
decorative  Catholic  prelates,  and  diplomats  of  strange 
countries,  who  had  dark  skins  and  wore  gorgeous,  un- 
Christian  clothes ;  but  there  was  just  as  much  move 
ment,  and  quite  as  many  dinners  and  luncheons,  as 
during  the  Continental  years.  He  had  also  hoped  for 
New  England  simplicity  of  arrangement  in  his  home ; 
but  he  was  again  mistaken,  for  his  wife  had  imported 
madonnas,  triptychs,  shrines,  and  images  from  Catholic 
countries,  porcelain  from  Sevres,  mosaics  from  Italian 
palaces,  and  bric-a-brac  from  every  corner  of  Europe. 

"  It  might  be  a  Continental  bazaar,"  he  said  mor 
bidly,  but  paid  custom-house  duties  without  more  seri 
ous  protest  than  an  evening  of  ill-humor. 

16 


THE   FATES   IN   CONFERENCE 

His  wife  found  life  little  more  than  tolerable  in  her 
own  city.  Of  social  gayety  there  was  sufficient  to  satisfy 
her  exactions ;  but  after  the  first  winter  she  became 
conscious  of  a  void. 

"  There  is  no  variety  about  it,"  she  complained, 
"  and  the  people  are  all  so  young !  " 

Her  forty  years  had  sat  lightly  upon  her  in  Europe, 
but,  once  conscious  of  the  reign  of  the  bud  and  college 
youth,  which  is  indigenous  to  Boston  soil,  she  became 
anxious.  The  bud  and  the  college  youth  bored  her, 
and  the  presence  of  slang  and  absence  of  ideas  in  these 
young  people  was  a  natural  trial  to  one  who  had  lived 
among  ambassadors  and  statesmen. 

"  But  one  must  have  a  scattering  of  debutantes  and 
football  players  at  one's  parties,  even  if  one  finds  it 
impossible  to  hold  rational  conversation  with  them,'7 
she  said.  "I  had  forgotten  Boston  was  so  silly;  had  n't 
you,  Willie?" 

Mr.  Stanwood,  looking  at  the  magnificence  of  his 
rooms,  and  remembering  the  almost  equal  magnificence 
of  the  houses  in  which  he  dined,  remarked  that  Boston 
had  changed  incredibly;  and  then  he  sought  the  "Bee- 
tlery,"  his  place  of  refuge  from  disturbing  thought. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Mrs.  Stanwood  felt  the 
want  of  a  daughter  to  "  bring  out,"  and  bethought  her 
self  of  her  niece,  whom  she  had  never  seen,  and  who 
must  be  approaching  the  delectable  age. 

Miranda  Lawrence,  who  was  in  charge  of  this  niece, 
had  never  married.  "  But  what  can  any  one  expect 
who  is  called  Miranda?"  asked  Mrs.  Stanwood  of  a 

17 


THE   EVASION 

friend.  "Yes,  we  are  sisters  —  stranger  things  may 
have  been,"  she  added. 

Miss  Lawrence  would  have  disdained  to  answer  airy 
persiflage  about  her  name.  The  temper  of  New  Eng 
land  villages  is  not  attuned  to  persiflage,  and  Miranda 
had  spent  her  life  in  one.  Moreover,  she  was  by  nature 
serious,  and  had  not  the  light  touch  on  life  and  things, 
nor  the  easy  philosophy,  wherein  lay  much  of  her  sister's 
power.  But,  like  her  sister,  she  had  chosen  her  own 
way  of  living,  and  never  regretted  her  choice.  To  stay 
in  the  family  mansion  and  take  care  of  her  brother 
and  his  three  children  from  the  time  of  his  young  wife's 
death  had  been  the  destiny  of  her  own  choice,  from 
which  Miranda  never  swerved. 

Her  brother  was  a  professor  of  bacteriology,  who 
studied  germs  with  even  more  ardor  than  his  brother- 
in-law  expended  upon  beetles  ;  and  he  often  wished  that 
Miranda  were  not  so  unflinching  in  her  duty.  He  would 
have  preferred  a  little  less  care-taking,  a  little  less  de 
votion  as  evidenced  in  the  stiffness  of  his  linen,  a  little 
less  punctuality  of  meal  hours.  He  sometimes  wished  to 
find  his  hat  and  stick  on  the  wood-box  where  he  had 
left  them,  though  Miranda,  already  worn  thin  in  his 
service,  had  been  the  one  to  transfer  them  to  a  coat 
closet.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  be  conscious  of  im 
patience  that  Miranda's  sense  of  duty  compelled  her  to 
sit  with  him  in  the  evening,  though  she  was  plainly 
overcome  with  sleep  by  half-past  nine. 

But  the  Professor  bore  his  trouble  without  protest. 
Protest  and  peace  could  not  keep  company  in  a  house 

18 


THE   FATES   IN   CONFERENCE 

where  Miss  Miranda  was  mistress,  and  above  all  things 
in  the  world  the  Professor  desired  peace.  Of  his  three 
children,  two,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  were  at  boarding-school ; 
the  third  and  oldest  was  Gladys,  the  girl  whom  Mrs. 
Stanwood  proposed  to  introduce  to  the  world. 

Miss  Miranda  loved  Gladys,  as  indeed  she  loved  each 
one  of  her  adopted  family,  but  she  was  one  of  those 
whose  destiny  it  is  to  love  without  return.  The  love 
that  is  capable  of  lifelong  devotion,  of  heroic  sacrifice ; 
the  love  of  those  who  will  die  for  us,  or,  what  is  often 
more  difficult,  live  for  us,  is  not  always  the  love  that 
can  command  return,  and  this  is  one  of  the  saddest 
things  in  life.  The  greater  part  of  living  is  made  up 
of  little  things,  and  those  who  make  the  little  things 
pleasant  for  us,  who  fill  our  days  with  a  gracious  pre 
sence,  with  ease,  with  sweetness,  and  with  mirth,  are 
those  who  capture  our  love.  Miranda  Lawrence  had 
sacrificed  personal  happiness  for  her  brother  and  his 
children,  but  she  could  not  make  them  happy.  Her 
presence  was  not  a  gracious  one  ;  she  lacked  the  supple 
ness  that  makes  sympathy  and  comprehension  possible ; 
she  could  not  shed  mirth  and  sweetness  upon  the  lives 
about  her ;  and  so  her  love  was  fated  to  be  without  re 
turn.  Upright,  strong,  and  pure,  living  rigidly,  loving 
dumbly,  knowing  neither  hesitation  nor  compromise, 
Miranda  Lawrence  walked  the  cold  and  lonely  way  of 
many  a  New  England  sister. 

She  was  not  happy  at  the  prospect  of  surrendering 
Gladys  to  the  light-hearted  cosmopolitan  who  had  come 
to  claim  her ;  but  pride  of  race  was  strong  within  her, 

19 


THE   EVASION 

and  she  wished  Gladys  to  occupy  the  position  of  social 
prominence  and  power  which  was  hers  by  birth. 

When  the  Professor  detached  himself  from  his 
germs  sufficiently  long  to  discuss  the  future  of  his 
oldest  daughter,  and  declared  himself  in  favor  of  her 
introduction  to  the  Boston  world,  Miranda  made  no 
objection  to  the  plan.  It  is  possible  that  the  Profes 
sor's  ready  acquiescence  in  his  daughter's  departure 
from  the  family  mansion  may  have  come  from  a  fear 
that  if  Gladys  lived  too  long  with  her  Aunt  Miranda 
she  would  grow  to  be  like  her.  But  that  such  a  fear 
would  be  unfounded,  no  one  looking  at  the  two  could 
doubt. 

Mrs.  Stanwood  also  reflected  uneasily  upon  the  pos 
sible  result  of  Miranda's  education  of  her  niece. 

"  Tell  me  the  worst  at  once,"  she  exclaimed  finally. 
"  Whom  does  she  resemble  —  you  or  me  ?  " 

She  asked  the  question  with  a  pretty  gayety  at  which 
it  would  have  been  impossible  to  take  offense  ;  but  be 
fore  her  sister  could  reply  the  door  opened  and  a  deli 
cate,  spirit-like  little  person  with  red  hair  stood  on  the 
threshold. 

"  This  is  Gladys,"  said  Miranda,  and  her  sister  was 
answered.  The  girl  resembled  no  one  but  herself.  Her 
personality  was  unusual,  as  Mrs.  Stanwood  noticed  with 
relief,  and  she  almost  forgot  to  wonder  if  Gladys  could 
be  called  pretty  —  she  was  so  much  more.  She  was 
pale,  but  her  pallor  was  exquisite  ;  she  was  small,  but 
so  small  as  to  fail  in  being  insignificant.  Her  fairness 
was  of  a  transparency  that  seemed  scarcely  tangible; 

20 


THE   FATES   IN   CONFERENCE 

and  one  would  have  said  that  her  flesh  and  blood  be 
longed  rather  among  essences  than  substances.  But 
this  spirit-like  personality  was  contradicted  by  the 
red  of  her  hair,  which  was  like  pale,  rebellious  flame, 
and  whether  she  spoke  or  was  silent,  moved  or  was 
still,  this  flame  seemed  the  visible  expression  of  some 
subtle  essence  that  vitalized  her  entire  being,  giving 
her  delicate  little  person  a  vividness  and  nervous  force 
that  made  her  very  emphatically  a  creature  of  this 
world. 

"  So  this  is  Gladys,"  Mrs.  Stanwood  said  slowly, 
holding  her  hand  after  the  conventional  kiss. 

"And  you  are  Aunt  Edith,"  answered  the  girl,  in  a 
clear,  childlike  voice,  returning  her  aunt's  scrutiny  with 
eyes  the  color  of  spring  skies. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood  tried  to  classify  the  girl ;  but  failing  in  this,  she 
allowed  her  eyes  to  wander  over  the  stiff,  unbecoming 
dress  of  gray  print,  which  was,  of  course,  Miranda's 
choice.  Gladys  saw  the  look,  understood  it,  and  re 
joiced. 

"You  had  better  smooth  your  hair,  child,"  inter 
rupted  Aunt  Miranda,  in  her  downright,  decided  tones. 

"  Nonsense ! "  answered  Mrs.  Stanwood  airily,  and 
with  a  pretty  foreign  gesture.  "  We  like  it  rough, 
don't  we,  Gladys  ?  "  From  that  moment  Gladys  wor 
shiped  at  her  Aunt  Edith's  feet. 

"  So  you  are  coming  to  visit  me  next  summer,"  con 
tinued  that  lady,  conscious  of  her  easy  victory. 

"  Am  I  ?  "  asked  Gladys.  A  sudden  and  apparently 
21 


THE   EVASION 

uncalled-for  mirth  danced  in  her  eyes  as  she  turned 
them  upon  Aunt  Miranda.  "  Am  I  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  I  think  your  father  has  given  his  consent,"  said 
Aunt  Edith. 

"  Papa  —  oh,  yes."  A  slight  upward  movement  of 
the  chin  suggested  the  trifling  importance  of  such  con 
sent.  "  And  you  —  you  are  really  going  to  ask  me  ?  " 
she  added,  evidently  struggling  with  laughter  and  some 
hidden  impulse. 

"  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  is  settled,"  answered 
Mrs.  Stanwood,  and  then  Gladys's  impulse  conquered. 
Laughing,  half  audacious,  half  ashamed,  she  knelt  sud 
denly  by  her  aunt's  side,  a  liberty  nothing  since  her 
childhood  had  prompted  her  to  take  with  Miss  Miranda. 

"  Aunt  Miranda  said  you  would  never  ask  me  if  you 
did  not  think  I  was  pretty,"  she  said,  "  and  I  think  — 
I  think  that  if  I  did  not  have  to  wear  so  many  gray 
checks,  I  might  possibly  be  —  a  little  —  pretty  —  some 
times." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  laughed,  a  laugh  as  fresh  and  young 
as  Gladys's  own.  "  I  see  that  we  shall  be  excellent 
friends,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  II 

A    WOMAN    OF    THE    WORLD 


IT 


was  only  a  few  weeks  later  that  Gladys  Lawrence 
began  a  new  life.  In  the  dignified  colonial  mansion  of 
her  birth,  her  delicate,  wayward  personality  had  been 
almost  submerged ;  but  in  Mrs.  Stanwood's  modern 
house,  with  its  irregular  outlines,  its  gay  awnings,  its 
light  and  space  and  luxury,  Gladys  knew  herself  to  be 
at  home. 

On  the  tables  were  the  latest  books,  with  alluring 
titles,  and  current  magazines,  with  news  and  pictures 
of  strange  lands  over  the  seas ;  and  everywhere  were 
flowers,  flowers  that  she  loved,  but  which  had  been 
denied  her  in  the  old  house  because  "  they  cluttered  up 
things  so."  The  bibelots,  pictures,  and  bits  of  ancient 
arras  that  Mrs.  Stanwood  had  brought  from  Europe 
were  sufficiently  prominent  to  pervade  the  atmosphere, 
and  these  hints  of  old-world  culture  were  of  infinite 
and  bewildering  suggestiveness  to  Gladys,  whose  hori 
zon  had  been  limited  by  pale  New  England  skies.  The 
new  and  incredible  possibilities  they  offered  were  not 
the  least  important  elements  in  the  roseate  atmosphere 
which  surrounded  her  first  days  of  freedom. 

Aunt  Edith,  always  exquisitely  dressed,  fresh,  buoy 
ant,  and  apparently  as  full  of  life  as  the  girl  herself, 

23 


THE   EVASION 

was  the  fairy  godmother  of  this  wonderful  world.  She 
appeared  to  have  unlimited  resources  in  the  way  of  new 
dresses,  ribbons,  lace,  chiffons  of  all  kinds,  with  which 
to  replace  Gladys's  village  wardrobe,  and  one  might 
have  said  she  lived  but  to  provide  the  girl  with  pleas 
ure  and  amusement. 

But  Gladys  was  of  the  age  when  pleasure  and  amuse 
ment  are  only  words.  She  was  at  the  time  when  the 
cup  of  life  holds  nothing  less  than  happiness,  and  this 
cup,  full  of  fragrance  and  magic,  the  girl  held  to  her 
lips  with  eager,  confident  hands.  Pleasure  and  amuse 
ment  are  things  that  come  later,  when  our  taste  for  life 
is  dulled,  and  our  days  require  seasoning,  —  the  refuge 
of  jaded  palates.  An  unhappy  man  or  woman  may  find 
relief  in  amusement,  and  the  greater  the  weariness  the 
more  feverish  the  search  for  pleasure.  But  the  grays  of 
youth  are  blue  and  the  yellows  golden.  In  such  a  world 
the  paltry  ring  of  mere  amusement  is  changed  straight 
way  to  the  tumult  of  joy  bells. 

Beyond  the  sheltered  beauty  and  gayety  of  Mrs. 
Stanwood's  home  was  the  sea,  still  and  beautiful,  an 
immeasurable  force,  slumbering  and  remote  under  the 
blue  of  June.  Only  at  night,  when  the  warm  scents  of 
earth  were  spent,  a  damp,  alien  breath  floated  in  from 
the  great  deeps,  and  there  were  solemn  whispers  along 
the  shore  as  the  tides  came  up.  But  Gladys  knew 
nothing  of  these  things  as  yet. 

The  first  few  days  were  largely  spent  in  consultation 
with  the  dressmaker,  who  brought  fabulous  stuffs  from 
the  city  for  Mrs.  Stanwood  to  choose  from,  and  the 

24 


choosing  was  an  occupation  of  absorbing  and  almost 
sacred  importance. 

"It  is  almost  too  good  to  be  true ! "  said  Gladys 
once,  with  a  sigh  of  deep  happiness. 

"  What  is?/'  inquired  her  aunt. 

"  Oh,  everything !  you  most  of  all." 

Mrs.  Stan  wood  laughed  lightly.  "Nonsense,  child, 
there  is  nothing  too  good  to  be  true  about  me,  I  can 
assure  you." 

They  were  in  Mrs.  Stan  wood's  boudoir  ;  and  Gladys, 
for  whom  most  chairs  were  too  large,  was  indulging  a 
lifelong  preference  for  the  floor,  cushions,  or  any  other 
substitute  for  a  formal  seat,  and  had  placed  herself  on  a 
footstool  near  her  aunt,  from  which  position  she  could 
look  through  the  long  French  window  at  the  sea. 

Mrs.  Stanwood  felt  that  it  was  time  to  broach  an 
important  subject. 

"  There  is  one  thing  wanting,  and  I  wonder  if  you 
can  guess  what  it  is,"  she  said. 

"  What  can  it  possibly  be  ?  "  asked  Gladys  serenely. 

"  A  lover,  of  course." 

"  A  lover  —  ?  "    Gladys  laughed  and  blushed. 

*'  C'est  une  enfant  delicieuse  !  "  thought  her  aunt.  "  I 
must  take  care  that  my  worldly  chatter  does  not  spoil 
her.  —  The  want  will  be  supplied  soon,"  she  said  aloud, 
"  for  Willie  is  to  bring  down  Richard  Copeland  and 
Arthur  Davenport  to-night.  Mr.  Copeland  has  been  in 
disgrace  of  one  kind  or  another  ever  since  he  was  born, 
and  they  tell  me  he  is  quite  ugly  and  terribly  strong, 
but  very  rich  and  clever.  Arthur  is  tall  and  handsome 

25 


THE   EVASION 

and  exceedingly  poor.  I  expect  him  to  fall  in  love  with 
you,  which  is  why  I  asked  him  —  he  is  an  adept  in  such 
matters.  In  fact,  I  expect  them  both  to  be  at  your  feet 
before  the  week  is  over,  but  I  do  not  suppose  you  will 
mind  that." 

Gladys  blushed  again.  "  I  am  afraid  I  should  like 
it,"  she  acknowledged,  "  but  I  suppose  it  is  wrong." 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  her  aunt,  much  amused.  "  If  you 
did  n't  like  it,  I  should  be  in  despair.  There  is,  I  believe, 
a  woman  who  does  not  like  to  be  loved  unless  she  can 
love  in  return  ;  but  such  a  paradox  exists  only  in  New 
England." 

"It  is  wrong  to  give  pain,"  said  Gladys,  with  her 
eyes  on  the  sea. 

"  Pain  —  ah,  my  child,  the  wound  of  a  man's  heart 
is  the  least  and  the  most  transient  of  pains.  At  a  cer 
tain  age  all  men  are  sure  to  love,  and  at  all  ages  certain 
men  are  sure  to  love.  That  a  man  loves  one  woman 
rather  than  another,  and  if  that  one  be  yourself,  is  the 
least  of  matters.  The  boy  loves  because  love  he  must, 
or  do  something  less  creditable,  and  if  he  loves  the  right 
girl  he  is  better  all  his  life  for  it.  The  man  who  loves 
because  love  he  must,  because  his  temperament  demands 
the  excitement  and  stimulus  —  and  there  are  many 
such  men  —  is  surely  the  last  to  trouble  our  conscience, 
even  when  he  loves  us  rather  than  the  woman  across 
the  way,  whom  it  is  likely  that  he  will  love,  in  spite  of 
us,  next  month.  And  remember  one  thing,  Gladys, 
nothing  is  so  easy  as  to  influence  for  his  good  the  man 
who  loves  you." 

26 


A  WOMAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

Mrs.  Stanwood  prided  herself  on  the  last  clause  of 
her  lecture,  which  was  an  inspiration  of  the  moment, 
and  seemed  especially  adapted  to  the  nature  she  was 
seeking  to  influence. 

Gladys  listened  composedly,  with  her  eyes  on  the  sea. 
"  You  almost  make  me  feel  it  my  duty  to  make  men 
love  me,"  she  said ;  and  something  in  the  words  and 
the  smile  that  accompanied  them  gave  a  check  to  her 
aunt's  confidence. 

"Enough  of  ethics,"  she  cried  gayly,  and,  opening 
an  inlaid  box  on  the  table  beside  her,  she  took  out  a 
delicate  snakeskin  purse.  "  This  is  for  your  bridge," 
she  continued,  handing  it  to  Gladys.  "The  lesson  is  at 
twelve,  and  you  ought  to  dress  soon.  I  told  Celeste  to 
put  in  fifty  dollars,  which  should  be  enough  for  a  start, 
particularly  as  you  have  played  before." 

Gladys  took  the  purse  reluctantly.  "  You  said  I  was 
to  have  ten  lessons,"  she  said,  "  but  I  had  no  idea  they 
were  so  expensive.  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  let  you 
give  them  to  me." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  laughed  as  she  rose. 

"  This  is  n't  for  lessons,  child,  but  for  play.  You 
will  hardly  lose  that  much  in  a  morning,  and  you  may 
win ;  but  it  is  always  well  to  be  prepared  for  emer 
gencies." 

The  expression  of  Gladys's  face  was  one  of  utter  dis 
may.  "  Do  you  mean  that  we  are  to  play  for  money  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Why,  of  course  ;  what  else  should  we  play  for  ?  " 

"  But  that  is  gambling !  " 
27 


THE   EVASION 

"  Well,  if  you  wish  to  call  it  gambling.  We  call  it 
bridge." 

"  I  don't  see  what  difference  the  name  can  make," 
said  the  girl  slowly. 

It  is  trying  to  have  one's  badinage  taken  in  such 
dreadful  earnest,  and  Mrs.  Stan  wood,  in  spite  of  her 
good  temper,  was  tried. 

"  We  must  n't  be  matter-of-fact  about  these  things," 
she  said  lightly,  "  or  condemn  the  use  of  a  thing  be 
cause  it  is  sometimes  abused."  ("  Where  did  I  find 
such  a  phrase  ? "  she  asked  herself  mentally,  filled 
with  admiration  for  her  own  resource.)  "  Our  bridge 
lessons  are  very  harmless,  and  the  loss  and  gain  aver 
age  up  at  the  end  of  a  year,"  she  continued  aloud,  "  so 
no  one  is  hurt  and  every  one  has  had  pleasure.  We 
must  give  the  way  of  the  world  a  trial  before  we  con 
demn  it.  The  common  criminal  has  that  much  mercy. 
There,  dear,  run  and  dress.  I  must  write  some  notes. 
And  try  to  remember  that  there  is  more  discipline  to 
our  courage,  our  good  temper,  our  self-control,  in  bridge 
and  balls  than  in  the  self-denial  practiced  by  the  Mi 
randas  of  the  world."  Mrs.  Stanwood  was  never  more 
impressed  with  her  own  cleverness  than  at  that  moment. 
But  she  was  not  prepared  for  her  niece's  resistance. 

"I  —  can't  —  do  —  it,"  was  Gladys's  slow  and  reluc 
tant  answer.  "  Please,  please,  take  the  money  back, 
Aunt  Edith,  and  don't  think  me  ungrateful.  I  would 
do  anything  for  you,  anything  but  this." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  was  severely  tried,  but  she  controlled 
herself. 

28 


A  WOMAN  OF  THE  WORLD 

"  I  see.  You  don't  like  losing  my  money,"  tshe  said 
pleasantly,  turning  round  with  pen  in  hand.  "  That  is 
very  sweet  of  you,  Gladys,  but  since  I  give  it  to  you 
outright  —  for  any  purpose  you  wish  "  — 

"  It  is  n't  that  so  much  — -  it  is  n't  losing  your  money," 
answered  Gladys  boldly ;  "  because  you  give  it  to  me  °} 
but  to  take  it  from  other  people,  people  I  don't  know, 
people  who  don't  want  me  to  have  it,  who  may  need  it 
themselves  —  oh,  Aunt  Edith,  I  can't  do  it.  I  can't !  " 

Mrs.  Stanwood  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  her 
gay  philosophy  came  to  the  rescue.  With  a  flash  of 
worldly  insight  she  saw  the  advantages  of  the  situa 
tion.  A  prestige  belongs  to  the  unusual,  in  spite  of  the 
world's  reputation  for  conventionality.  This  prestige 
should  belong  to  Gladys.  The  girl  had  enough  position 
and  charm  to  live  out  her  own  individuality,  and  be  the 
worldly  gainer  by  so  doing.  So  instead  of  the  reproaches 
for  which  Gladys  waited  with  a  distress  only  equaled 
by  her  resolution,  she  was  given  a  playful  kiss  on  the 
forehead. 

"  What  an  obstinate  little  puss  it  is  !  "  cried  her  aunt. 
"  Well,  dear,  you  shall  not  play  for  money  if  you  don't 
want  to,  and  I  dare  say  you  are  right.  We  won't  talk 
any  more  about  it.  No,  keep  the  purse ;  you  may  want 
it  for  other  things.  When  people  ask  me  why  you 
won't  play  I  shall  tell  them  —  ?  Oh,  I  shall  find  enough 
to  tell  them  when  the  time  comes,  never  fear." 


CHAPTER  III 

GLADYS    BEGINS    HER    EDUCATION 

AKE  up,  cherie,  it  is  long  after  nine,  and  your 
lovers  breakfasted  an  hour  ago." 

Gladys  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  looking  at  the 
sunlight  and  readjusting  bewildered  thoughts  to  the 
rush  of  delight  that  greeted  her  every  waking  in  this 
new  world. 

"  When  did  they  come?"  she  asked. 

"  Last  night,  just  after  you  had  gone  to  bed.  Wil 
lie  brought  them.  They  are  waiting  for  you  now.  If 
you  don't  go  down  soon,  he  will  show  them  the  beetles, 
and  I  should  like  to  spare  them  that  the  first  morn 
ing.  Arthur  is  handsomer  than  ever.  He  left  college  in 
a  blaze  of  glory.  —  There,  if  you  stop  dressing  your 
hair,  I  shall  have  to  go  away.  Be  sure  you  leave  it 
loose  behind  the  ears.  — Yes,  he  left  Harvard  in  a  blaze 
of  glory,  for  he  was  captain  of  the  winning  nine,  and 
that  is  the  most  important  position  there  is,  next  to 
the  President's.  I  want  you  to  appreciate  your  good 
fortune  in  having  him  here.  You  see,  he  is  Willie's 
nephew,  and  has  no  family.  Richard  Copeland  is  very 
ugly  and  very  distingue.  I  don't  quite  place  him  yet, 
and  am  almost  sorry  I  asked  him ;  for  Mrs.  Herbert 
told  me  last  night  that  he  is  always  putting  somebody 
in  the  wrong." 

30 


GLADYS   BEGINS  HEK   EDUCATION 

"  What  a  dreadful  person !  "  exclaimed  Gladys,  in 
dismay. 

"  So  I  fear.  He  is  older  than  Arthur,  but  does  n't 
graduate  till  next  year,  for  he  lost  several  years  by 
being  expelled  from  so  many  different  schools.  But  he 
isn't  in  disgrace  at  Harvard  so  far.  Now  I  must  run 
and  dress  for  church.  You  won't  go,  I  suppose,  neither 
will  the  boys,  so  I  will  leave  you  all  to  make  friends. 
If  I  am  not  down  before  you,  Willie  will  introduce 
them." 

"  But  Uncle  Willie  has  n't  been  down  here  yet,  and 
I  have  never  seen  him,"  protested  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that !  You  are  not  shy,  and  he 
will  know  who  you  are ;  but  I  shall  probably  be  down. 
Now,  don't  waste  time  looking  at  the  sea.  I  will  send 
your  breakfast  up,  and  I  think  you  had  better  wear 
your  green  muslin." 

A  little  later,  as  Gladys  came  down  the  wide  stair 
way  in  her  green  dress,  with  a  liberty  hat  of  the  same 
color  flopping  like  a  lily  pad  when  she  moved,  she 
seemed  — 

"  The  smallest  lady  alive 
Made  in  a  piece  of  nature's  madness; 
Too  small  almost  for  the  life  and  gladness 
That  over-filled  her," 

and  the  contrast  of  the  green  of  her  dress  and  the 
red  of  her  hair  was  something  an  artist  would  dream 
of.  She  paused  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
to  look  through  the  wide  doorway,  beyond  which  were 
glimpses  of  the  sea  under  orange-colored  awnings,  and 

31 


THE   EVASION 

a  riot  of  June  roses  on  the  terrace  garden.  The  fra 
grance  of  flowers  met  her,  mingled  with  suggestions  of 
cigar  smoke,  and  she  heard  masculine  voices  engaged 
in  what  often  seems  to  a  woman  the  bored  and  desul 
tory  conversation  into  which  men  relax  when  left 
to  themselves.  They  were  speculating  upon  such  pro 
foundly  uninteresting  subjects  as  the  precise  direction 
of  Boston  Harbor,  and  the  height  of  the  cliff  from 
summit  to  sea-line. 

Gladys  was  not  shy,  but  she  did  hesitate  a  little  be 
fore  going  in  the  direction  of  the  voices.  To  face  three 
strange  men  all  at  once  without  an  introduction  was 
an  ordeal,  even  for  Mrs.  Stanwood's  niece.  She  ad 
vanced,  nevertheless,  and  suddenly,  without  being  seen, 
came  upon  the  group.  The  heavy,  middle-aged  man 
in  the  armchair  was  Uncle  Willie,  of  course,  and  the 
man  who  spread  his  graceful  length  in  the  hammock, 
and  who  seemed  to  Gladys's  unaccustomed  eyes  as 
handsome  as  a  young  god,  must  be  Arthur  Davenport. 
A  disreputable  college  cap  was  pulled  over  his  eyes, 
and  it  seemed  to  the  girl  that  this  young  Adonis,  this 
idol  of  a  university,  looked  tired  and  anxious. 

Lounging  on  the  top  step,  his  back  supported  by 
the  piazza  pillar,  and  smoking  in  great  content,  was 
another  figure.  " Very  ugly,  very  distingue"  Gladys 
recalled  the  words,  and  would  have  recognized  Richard 
Copeland  by  them  had  there  been  other  men  present. 
The  dark  face  was  unusually  ugly,  "  even  for  a  man/' 
Gladys  commented  secretly,  and  his  hair  seemed  al 
most  ruthlessly  black  for  such  a  morning.  While  she 

32 


GLADYS  BEGINS   HER  EDUCATION 

looked,  he  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  to  demonstrate 
the  probable  height  of  the  highest  tides,  as  shown  by 
an  almost  imperceptible  mark  on  the  cliffs,  and  then 
suddenly  he  saw  her.  There  was  an  instant's  pause, 
and  that  particular  sentence  about  the  tides  was  never 
finished.  As  he  rose,  Arthur,  noticing  the  silence,  saw 
her  and  rose  also,  and,  before  her  uncle  could  speak,  was 
greeting  her  with  the  mixture  of  warmth,  deference, 
and  sweetness  which  did  much  towards  winning  him 
life's  success. 

It  was  not  enough  that  he  was  handsome  as  a  young 
god ;  nature  had  added  to  simple  beauty  of  outline  a 
radiance  of  smile  and  expression  that  had  captured 
the  fancy,  if  not  the  heart,  of  many  a  young  girl  be 
fore  bewildering  Gladys  on  this  particular  June  morn 
ing. 

"  So  this  is  my  new  cousin,"  he  said,  standing  above 
her,  —  six  feet  two  of  hearty  manhood,  fresh,  unspoiled, 
untried,  and  perfect  in  beauty  from  the  wave  of  his 
thick  chestnut  hair  to  the  tip  of  his  perfectly  shod  feet. 
"  We  have  been  waiting  for  you  I  don't  know  how 
long,  and  boring  each  other  dreadfully." 

Her  uncle's  greeting  was  none  the  less  frank  and 
hearty  because  of  its  delivery  in  the  over-loud  voice 
which  had  so  often  and  so  sorely  tried  his  wife. 

"  We  are  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear,"  he  assured  her 
warmly.  "  And  it 's  time  you  came,  for  I  dare  say  we 
were  boring  each  other,  though  I  had  not  remarked  it 
myself.  I  suppose  you  know  my  friend  Dick  Copeland; 
you  both  lived  in  the  same  place  as  children." 

33 


THE   EVASION 

As  Richard  came  forward  he  tossed  his  cigar  iu  among 
the  rose  bushes. 

"  I  never  saw  Mr.  Copeland  before,"  said  Gladys,  her 
hand  meeting  his,  "  but  I  recognized  him  at  once  by  a 
description." 

"A  description — of  me!"  He  laughed  with  such 
evident  appreciation  of  the  possibilities  of  such  a  de 
scription,  that  Gladys,  conscious  of  her  false  step,  was 
confused.  But  his  eyes,  holding  hers  for  a  moment,  said 
as  plainly  as  words,  "  It 's  all  right,  I  don't  mind." 

Then,  as  she  took  the  armchair  Arthur  had  pulled 
forward,  Richard  went  back  to  his  seat  on  the  steps. 

There  was  a  moment 's  pause,  during  which  Gladys 
found  herself  the  focus  of  three  strange  pairs  of  mas 
culine  eyes.  She  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  plunged  reck 
lessly  into  conversation  with  Dick. 

"  Aunt  Edith  has  been  telling  me  about  you,"  she 
began,  but  came  to  a  sudden  pause,  troubled  at  hav 
ing  fallen  into  the  same  conversational  pitfall  that  had 
disconcerted  her  the  moment  before ;  but  at  that  in 
stant  she  recognized  admiration  in  the  eyes,  and,  con 
tinuing  with  more  confidence,  included  Arthur  in  her 
remarks.  "  She  tells  me  you  are  very  famous  people." 

"  That  is  according  to  one's  view  of  the  case,"  said 
Arthur.  "  I  have  come  to  the  end  of  my  claims  to 
distinction  —  such  as  they  are.  What  is  a  baseball 
captain,  after  he  has  ceased  to  play  baseball  ?  " 

"  But  Aunt  Edith  tells  me  you  are  one  of  the  most 
famous  people  in  the  country — next  to  the  President," 
persisted  Gladys. 

34 


GLADYS  BEGINS  HEK  EDUCATION 

"That's  all  rot,"  answered  Arthur, gazing  at  his  toes 
while  he  stuck  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  looked 
very  boyish  and  modest.  "  Besides,  it  is  n't  true." 

Gladys  laughed.    "  Is  n't  it  really  ?  " 

"  I  say !  that  is  unkind,  in  the  first  five  minutes," 
he  said,  but  laughed  with  her.  "  If  you  want  to  see 
a  really  distinguished  person,  you  must  look  at  Cope- 
land,"  he  continued.  "  He  can  break  curtain  wire  with 
his  biceps,  twist  horseshoes  with  his  bare  hands,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing." 

By  this  time  Gladys  had  gained  entire  confidence  in 
herself,  and  she  looked  at  Dick  Copeland  critically. 

"  Aunt  Edith  did  n't  tell  me  about  that,"  she  said. 
"  Perhaps  she  knew  it  would  n't  interest  me  very  much. 
She  told  me  you  were  famous  for  putting  people  in  the 
wrong." 

"  Is  n't  that  another  way  of  saying  that  I  am  famous 
for  putting  them  in  the  right  ?  "  asked  Dick. 

Gladys  considered  him  and  his  remark  for  a  moment 
before  she  smiled.  "  Then  it  is  true,"  she  said. 

"What?" 

"  That  you  deliberately  try  to  put  people  in  the 
wrong  —  your  remark  is  an  acknowledgment  of  it." 

"Pretty  good,  by  Jove!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Willie, 
bringing  his  hand  down  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair  with 
a  boisterous  laugh.  He  had  just  realized  the  point  of 
Dick's  answer,  and  was  enjoying  it  hugely  all  by  him 
self. 

"  Are  you  really  a  reformer  ?  "  asked  Gladys,  when 
silence  was  restored,  and  still  addressing  Dick.  But 

35 


THE   EVASION 

he  remained  silent,  and  she  was  conscious  of  having 
stumbled  upon  a  vital  issue  in  the  boy's  life. 

"  So  it  is  really  true,"  she  thought,  remembering  the 
story  of  his  terrible  childish  defiance,  and  the  following 
years  filled  with  more  or  less  of  rebellion  and  disgrace. 
In  this  college  man  of  abnormal  depth  of  chest  and 
breadth  of  shoulder,  of  a  build  almost  uncouth  beside 
Arthur's  grace  and  length,  she  saw  nothing  to  suggest 
the  sensitiveness  and  intellect  that  would  seem  to  have 
been  the  inevitable  mainsprings  of  his  past  actions.  It 
was  only  in  his  deepset  eyes,  curiously  shadowed  by  over 
hanging  brows,  that  Gladys  seemed  to  find  that  for  which 
she  was  hunting.  Dick's  eyes  lent  redeeming  dignity  to 
a  face  toward  which  nature  had  been  otherwise  unkind. 

Arthur  was  the  first  to  interrupt  her  speculation. 
"  Aunt  Edith  tells  me  you  are  not  going  to  church 
with  her,"  he  said.  "  What  would  you  like  to  do? " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  nice  to  go  down  to  the  beach 
and  gather  some  of  that  beautiful  cobwebby  seaweed," 
said  Gladys. 

"  But  it  will  be  hot  on  the  beach,"  protested  Arthur, 
to  whom  the  collection  of  seaweed  did  not  commend 
itself  as  a  morning's  occupation.  "  And  what  do  you 
want  of  seaweed  ?  What  can  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  want  of  it?  What  can  I  do  with  it? " 
repeated  the  girl  reproachfully.  "  Why,  papa  and 
Aunt  Miranda  could  n't  have  asked  worse  questions 
than  those.  Do  with  it  —  I  don't  know.  Want  with 
it  ?  —  I  don't  know  either.  Why  should  I  ?  It  is 
June,  you  know,  and  in  June  the  things  we  need  are 

36 


GLADYS  BEGINS   HER  EDUCATION 

not  the  only  things  worth  while,  and  the  only  wise 
thing  is  to  be  foolish.  Somebody  once  spoke  of  the 
*  transcendent  value  of  the  unessential,'  some  delight 
ful  person  I  have  always  wanted  to  know." 

"  Are  your  father  and  Aunt  Miranda  insensible  to 
these  '  transcendent '  valuables  ?  "  asked  Dick. 

"  Why,  yes.  Papa  is  a  bacteriologist.  Did  n't  you 
know?  He  grows  germs  in  bouillon  and  guinea-pigs, 
which  means  that  he  is  scientific,  and  '  Science,'  he 
says,  '  does  not  recognize  the  unessential.'  As  for  Aunt 
Miranda,  —  well,  if  you  saw  her  you  would  know  at 
once  that  she  could  only  value  the  things  she  can  use. 
Poor  Aunt  Miranda!  Now  I  think  it  is  just  the  practi 
cally  unessential  things  that  are  good  for  the  soul." 

"  Seaweed,  for  instance,"  suggested  Dick. 

"Yes,  and  this."  She  rose  and  pulled  down  a  spray 
of  the  white  rose  rambler  that  hung  above  her. 

Mr.  Stan  wood  was  endeavoring  to  recall  echoes  of  an 
article  he  had  once  read  on  the  "  Psychology  of  Beetles" 
which  had  demonstrated  startling  analogies  between 
the  moral  condition  of  that  insect  and  man. 

"  Some  day  science  may  be  able  to  demonstrate  the 
existence  of  a  soul,"  he  said. 

Gladys  swung  her  branch  of  roses.  "  I  should  not  be 
lieve  in  a  soul  that  could  be  demonstrated,"  she  said. 

When  Mrs.  Stanwood,  a  figure  of  graceful  elegance, 
descended  upon  the  group,  she  found  her  niece  entire 
mistress  of  the  situation,  and  signified  her  approval  by 
inviting  her  husband  to  go  to  church.  The  taking  of 
Willie  to  church  was  a  sacrifice,  for  he  lost  his  way 

37 


THE   EVASION 

in  the  prayer-book  and  breathed  heavily  during  the 
sermon ;  but  Gladys  must  have  a  morning  of  undis 
puted  possession,  and  Mrs.  Stanwood  felt  that  the  girl 
would  repay  the  sacrifice. 

"  I  like  Uncle  Willie,"  said  Gladys,  when  the  victoria 
had  disappeared  round  the  curve.  "  He  seems  so  —  so 
good." 

Arthur  laughed.  "  That  is  damning  with  faint  praise, 
or,  more  truthfully,  praising  with  faint  damns.  But  he 
is  good,"  he  said  more  seriously,  adding  to  himself, 
"  and  I  rather  think  his  wife  has  often  had  reason  to 
find  him  so." 

Dick  stood  on  the  steps,  looking  at  the  sea. 

"  We  have  the  whole  long  morning  before  us,"  he 
began. 

"  What  a  way  of  putting  it ! "  interrupted  Arthur, 
laughing  again. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  it  that  way,"  said  Dick  quietly. 

"  I  did  not  take  it  that  way,"  answered  Gladys  in 
the  same  tone.  She  had  already  decided  that  Arthur 
laughed  too  much  and  that  she  liked  Dick  the  best. 

"  We  have  the  whole  long  morning  before  us,"  re 
peated  Dick.  "  Where  shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?  "  asked  Arthur. 

"  Why  do  you  say  do  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  say  go  ?   Is  n't  this  pretty  good  ?  " 

"  The  beach  is  pretty  good,  but  the  woods  are  nicest 
in  June,"  continued  Dick. 

Gladys  lifted  her  head  like  a  bird  about  to  sing. 
"  Let  us  go  to  the  woods,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    DEBUTANTE 


A 


FEW  evenings  later,  Mrs.  Stan  wood  opened  the 
season  with  an  evening  reception  for  her  niece.  The 
room  was  cleared  for  dancing,  and  in  the  library  card 
tables  were  set  for  "  bridge."  Before  the  first  guest  had 
arrived,  Gladys  stood  with  Arthur  and  Dick  at  one  end 
of  the  empty,  brilliantly  lighted  rooms,  and  discussed 
card-playing.  She  was  dressed  in  billowy  white,  and 
appeared  more  than  usually  delicate  and  spirit-like  be 
tween  the  two  powerful  men ;  but  the  souls  of  Puritan 
ancestors  looked  aggressively  from  her  eyes. 

"  Are  they  really  going  to  play  for  money,  to-night  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"Of  course  they  are,"  said  Arthur.  "Aunt  Edith 
thought  at  one  time  of  giving  it  up  on  your  account, 
but  I  told  her  it  was  no  use.  No ;  society  will  not 
stand  that  sort  of  thing.  But  it 's  all  right  for  a  girl," 
he  added,  with  his  radiant  smile. 

The  blue  flame  in  Gladys's  eyes  was  pure  and  stern. 
It  seemed  to  Dick,  suddenly,  that  high,  invisible  pre 
sences  walked  with  her,  and  that  in  her  keeping  was 
life's  holy  of  holies ;  these  are  dangerous  thoughts  for 
the  very  young  man. 

"  It 's  all  right  for  a  girl,"  repeated  Arthur. 
39 


THE   EVASION 

"Why  for  a  girl?" 

"  Why,  because  —  Oh,  well,  it 's  right  for  girls  to 
stand  up  for  things." 

"  What  things  ?" 

"  The  best  things.    We  want  the  best  for  you." 

"  I  should  be  ashamed  to  say  that  if  I  were  a  man," 
said  Gladys.  "  Do  you  play  for  money  ?  "  she  asked, 
turning  to  Dick.  Under  the  heavy  shadow  thrown  by 
his  brow  his  eyes  looked  more  than  usually  formidable. 

"  Do  you  play  for  money?  " 

"Yes." 

Gladys  paused,  considering  him  with  direct,  uncon 
scious  scrutiny.  "  I  had  an  idea  you  would  not  do 
what  you  thought  was  wrong,"  she  said  finally. 

"I  do  not  think  it  wrong." 

"  Not  wrong  to  gamble !  How  can  you  pretend  such 
a  thing  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  pretend  it,  —  I  believe  it.  I  believe,  not 
in  removing  temptation,  but  in  making  men  strong  to 
resist  it." 

Arthur  rattled  some  loose  coins  in  his  pockets  and 
looked  bored.  If  asked  his  opinion  he  would  have  said 
that  he  had  "  no  use  "  for  the  seriousness  with  which 
Copeland  took  life,  and  Mrs.  Stanwood,  who  came  up  in 
time  to  hear  the  last  remarks,  was  of  Arthur's  opinion. 
She  even  doubted  if  Dick  Copeland  was  the  best  of  in 
fluences  for  Gladys  at  this  particular  period  of  her  life. 

"  You  have  come  just  in  time  to  prevent  Gladys 
from  having  the  woman's  last  word,"  cried  Arthur, 
hailing  an  interruption. 

40 


THE  DEBUTANTE 

"  I  notice  a  man  always  allows  the  woman  the  last 
word  when  she  has  the  better  of  him  in  an  argument," 
said  Gladys,  with  a  lift  of  her  chin,  and  she  was  suddenly 
transformed  into  a  personality  for  which  no  Puritan 
ancestor  could  have  been  held  responsible. 

"  They  have  been  talking  ethics,  —  the  rights  and 
wrongs  of  things,  you  know,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Children !  Children  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Stanwood.  "  Our 
guests  are  arriving,  and  right  and  wrong  have  nothing 
to  do  with  them." 

During  the  evening  Mrs.  Stanwood  explained  her 
niece's  eccentricity  with  her  usual  ease. 

"  No,  my  niece  does  not  play  with  us.  The  child  is 
such  an  odd  little  puss,"  she  said.  "  I  could  not  per 
suade  her  that  it  was  not  wicked  to  play  for  money. 
Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  she  will  change,  but  I  am  not 
altogether  sure  that  I  wish  her  to,  she  is  so  refreshing 
just  as  she  is." 

"  Miss  Lawrence  does  not  look  like  a  member  of  the 
Woman's  Social  Reform  Club,"  remarked  the  friend 
who  was  particularly  questioning  Mrs.  Stanwood ;  and 
as  she  spoke  she  raised  a  lorgnette  and  looked  over  at 
a  table  in  the  corner  where  Gladys,  seated  with  three 
men,  was  playing  for  black  beans.  Several  other  men 
who  had  offered  their  services  as  teachers  were  stand 
ing  behind  her,  and  the  group  was  a  centre  of  noisy 
merriment. 

"  I  understand  that  you  have  the  baseball  hero  and 
that  Copeland  boy  staying  with  you,"  continued  the 

41 


questioner.    "  Are  not  you  afraid  of  her  falling  in  love 
with  the  penniless  Adonis  ?  " 

"  With  Arthur  ?  No,  I  think  not,"  said  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood  slowly.  "There  is  a  great  deal  of  glamour  about 
Arthur,  but  I  suspect  Gladys  of  being  an  unusually 
clear-eyed  little  girl.  She  would  be  more  likely  to  care 
for  Richard  Copeland." 

The  lady  put  up  her  lorgnette  again  and  looked  at 
Dick,  who  was  among  the  group  surrounding  Gladys. 

"  He  is  very  rich,  they  tell  me,"  she  said,  "  but  he 
is  also  exceedingly  ugly,  and  has  an  obstinate  chin. 
It  would  be  a  risk  to  marry  a  man  with  a  chin  like 
that." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  laughed.  "  It  is  often  those  deter 
mined-looking  men  who  are  most  easily  controlled  by 
their  wives,"  she  said.  "  But  I  don't  want  Gladys  to 
think  of  marrying  any  one  yet." 

To  those  who  questioned  Gladys  as  to  her  refusal 
to  play  for  money,  —  a  refusal  which  had  already  cir 
culated  from  end  to  end  of  the  crowded  rooms,  —  the 
girl  gave  only  laughing  answers.  Instinct  was  already 
teaching  her  that  light  touch  of  grave  subjects  with 
which  the  woman  ofjthe  world  —  when  in  the  world  — 
veils  her  earnest  convictions. 

"  It  is  entirely  a  question  of  ethics  with  me,"  she 
said  to  one  of  the  interlocutors.  "Now  why  do  you 
look  at  me  that  way,  Mr.  Antson  ?  "  Laying  her  cards 
upon  the  table,  face  up,  Gladys  interrogated  her  part 
ner.  "Does  he  mean  that  he  doesn't  believe  I  know 
what  ethics  are?" 

42 


THE  DEBUTANTE 

"  You  don't  look  as  if  you  did ;  upon  my  word  you 
don't." 

"  Which  is  probably  intended  as  a  compliment,  but 
not  taken  as  one.  Aunt  Miranda  brought  me  up  too 
well  for  that.  Why,  my  cards  are  face  side  up !  Every 
one  must  have  seen  everything  —  why  did  n't  some  one 
tell  me?  Aunt  Edith  says  it  is  not  ethics  at  all,  but 
only  a  name.  If  I  had  not  been  brought  up  by  some 
one  called  Miranda,  she  thinks  I  should  be  earning  my 
pin  money  now.  Why  doesn't  somebody  play?" 

"  We  are  waiting  for  you,  Miss  Lawrence." 

"  We  have  been  waiting  for  you  some  time." 

"And  you  may  as  well  trump  my  trick,  since  you 
really  care  about  it,"  concluded  her  partner  resignedly. 
"  As  you  have  so  honorably  shown  your  hand,  we  shall 
not  win  a  bean  this  time,  however  hard  we  try." 

"I  pretend  not  to  play  for  money  because  of  high 
principle,"  she  told  one  of  the  later  questioners ;  "  but 
it  is  really  because  of  my  original  sin.  Gambling  for 
beans  excites  me  so  dreadfully,  I  feel  such  awful  envy 
of  the  person  who  has  a  larger  pile  of  beans  than  mine, 
that  I  should  grow  hopelessly  depraved  in  a  single 
evening  if  I  played  for  money." 

Before  the  evening  was  over  any  doubts  that  may 
have  remained  in  Mrs.  Stanwood's  mind  concerning 
the  success  of  her  experiment  were  dispelled.  When 
the  dancing  began,  Gladys  seemed  in  her  element. 
She  danced  exquisitely,  with  an  almost  passionate 
abandon,  and  while  the  music  lasted  a  corner  was 
occupied  by  a  knot  of  eager  youths  waiting  for  their 

43 


THE   EVASION 

turn  with  her.  It  was  the  kind  of  success  that  mounts 
to  a  girl's  brain  like  young  wine,  and  Gladys  was 
intoxicated  with  happiness  before  the  evening  ended. 

Many  were  the  congratulations  received  by  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood  as  her  guests  shook  hands  with  her.  The  young 
men,  of  limited  college  vocabulary,  said  that  Miss  Law 
rence  was  "  great,  simply  great."  Her  contemporaries 
assured  her  that  her  niece  would  be  the  success  of  the 
next  season,  and  would  give  no  end  of  trouble  to  the  men. 

"  Which  is  just  what  I  wish  her  to  do,"  retorted  the 
hostess  gayly. 

One  older  man,  of  the  kind  who  have  "  lived,"  which 
means  that  he  had  exhausted  his  vital  energies  both 
physical  and  moral  by  the  dissipation  of  several  con 
tinents,  looked  at  Gladys  with  eyes  that  gave  sudden 
betrayal  of  his  tired  spirit.  This  man  was  Richard 
Copeland's  trustee,  and  he  had  known  Mrs.  Stanwood 
for  many  years.  He  was  usually,  though  in  an  appar 
ently  casual  and  accidental  way,  to  be  met  with  in  the 
drawing-rooms  of  whichever  European  capital  she  was 
occupying  at  the  time,  and  society  had  grown  weary  of 
asking  itself  whether  this  juxtaposition  was  as  casual 
and  accidental  as  it  appeared. 

He  was  present  on  the  evening  of  Gladys's  debut, 
and  approached  his  hostess  with  more  than  his  usual 
deliberation.  Leslie  Aldrich's  movements  were  increas 
ingly  deliberate,  but  whether  this  was  a  result  of  con 
scious  reserve  power  engendered  by  his  years  of  expe 
rience,  or  from  gout,  or  simple  ennui,  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  say. 

44 


THE   DEBUTANTE 

"  I  have  enjoyed  the  evening  "  —  he  began. 

"  After  your  own  fashion,  Leslie." 

"  Precisely." 

"  Which  is  not  a  happy  one  these  days." 

He  bowed  acquiescence,  and  continued.  "  I  was 
about  to  say  that  I  have  enjoyed  the  evening  —  even 
less  than  usual.  Your  niece  —  troubles  me." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  laughed.  "  Are  you  not  a  trifle  old 
for  her?"  she  asked. 

Leslie  Aldrich  colored. 

"  You  misunderstand  me.  Your  niece  "  —  He  paused, 
this  time  of  his  own  accord. 

"My  niece?" 

"You  are  always  the  most  charming  of  women, 
Adele." 

"  I  took  your  opinion  on  that  subject  for  granted 
many  years  ago.  You  say  it  now  when  you  want  to 
scold  me.  My  niece  —  you  were  remarking  ?  " 

"Troubles  me.  She  is  an  exquisite  child.  Do  not 
spoil  her,  Adele,  do  not  ruin  her  life  "  — 

"  My  dear  Leslie !  you  are  flattering  to-night." 

—  "  You  who  have  so  successfully  ruined  mine." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  laughed  easily.  "  You  are  so  gener 
ous,  you  sons  of  Adam.  '  The  woman  tempted  me ' ! 
No,  Leslie,  my  conscience  is  easy  with  regard  to  you. 
You  would  have  ruined  yourself  quite  successfully 
without  any  intervention  of  mine." 

Leslie  Aldrich  bowed  low  and  took  his  departure. 

When  the  last  guest  had  gone,  Gladys  bounded  across 
the  room,  and  flung  her  arms  about  her  aunt's  neck. 

45 


THE  EVASION 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Edith  !  I  am  so  happy !  I  never  thought 
any  one  could  be  so  happy.  And  it  is  all  you!  you! 
you !  "  she  cried. 

After  the  girl  had  gone  to  bed  Mrs.  Stanwood  sought 
her  husband  in  his  dressing-room.'  It  was  an  unusual 
occurrence,  and  he  rose  eagerly  to  receive  her,  starting 
to  toss  aside  his  cigar  as  he  did  so. 

"  Never  mind  about  that,"  she  said,  stopping  him. 
"  I  am  only  going  to  stay  a  minute,"  and  she  sat  pro 
visionally  on  the  chair  he  brought  forward,  for  tete-a- 
tetes  with  Willie  were  among  the  few  almost  unendur 
able  occasions  in  her  life. 

"You  are  looking  pretty  fit  to-night,"  he  said, 
grinning  at  her  delightedly. 

She  smiled  with  absent-minded  kindness.  Unless 
forced  by  relentless  circumstance,  she  was  always  kind 
to  Willie. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  Arthur,"  she  said. 
"  Did  you  notice  him  ?  " 

"He  seemed  in  better  spirits  than  usual." 

"  Nonsense,  Willie,  that  is  not  what  I  mean." 

Mr.  Stanwood  waited  for  enlightenment. 

"  He  played  bridge  as  though  it  were  rouge  et  noir 
at  Monte  Carlo,"  continued  his  wife  ;  "  and  would  not 
leave  the  tables,  even  to  dance,  so  long  as  there  was 
any  one  to  play  with  him.  I  saw  you  standing  by  him 
once  in  the  smoking-room.  Did  he  play  for  high 
stakes  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Mr.  Stanwood,  with  evident  reluc 
tance. 

46 


THE   DEBUTANTE 

«  Did  he  win  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Did  any  one  person  lose  heavily  to  him  ?  " 

"Only  young  Copeland." 

"  Ah !  I  do  not  mind  him ;  he  can  afford  it,  and  will 
not  be  obliged  to  pass  the  night  on  a  haystack  as  those 
foolish  boys  did  who  played  at  the  Athertons'  till  they 
had  no  money  to  go  home  with.  I  only  wanted  to  know 
if  there  were  to  be  a  scandal  of  that  sort  at  my  house." 

Mrs.  Stanwood's  lips  curved  in  lines  of  scorn.  Her 
cool,  fastidious  senses  revolted  at  the  violent  form  of 
social  excitement  which  is  offered  by  the  modern  de 
velopment  of  "  bridge." 

"  Arthur  is  your  nephew,"  she  continued,  "  and  I 
think  he  ought  to  be  looked  after,  unless  you  want  to 
find  yourself  forced  to  pay  large  sums  to  keep  him  out 
of  disgrace." 

"  I  never  heard  of  any  one  who  did  not  love  and  re 
spect  Arthur,"  said  Mr.  Stanwood. 

"  Fiddlesticks !  "  answered  his  wife  lightly.  "  I  am 
glad  Gladys  does  not  seem  inclined  to  fancy  him." 

Mr.  Stanwood  removed  the  cigar  from  his  mouth,  and 
looked  at  it  reflectively. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  spoil  her,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Stanwood  tapped  her  foot  impatiently,  for  this 
was  becoming  tiresome. 

"  Why  should  I  spoil  her  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mr.  Stanwood  continued  to  gaze  at  his  cigar,  but, 
failing  to  draw  enlightenment  therefrom,  he  replaced 
it  in  his  mouth,  and  offered  no  further  suggestions. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    SOCIALIST 


D 


'AYS  of  ease  and  pleasure  succeeded  each  other,  and 
in  the  future  Gladys  seemed  to  behold  gleaming  and 
bewildering  stretches  of  pure  delight.  Her  aunt  was 
to  take  her  to  Paris  in  the  autumn,  after  which  would 
come  the  winter  in  Boston,  to  which  this  summer's 
gayety  was  but  a  prelude.  No  disillusion  came  to  mar 
the  perfection  of  these  first  months.  Her  friends  were 
as  young  as  herself,  nor  did  she  find  among  them  the 
frivolity  and  worldliness  against  which  Aunt  Miranda 
had  warned  her.  She  even  found  those  who,  like  her 
self,  refused  to  play  cards  for  money,  and  she  carried 
the  discovery  to  Mrs.  Stanwood  with  undisguised 
triumph. 

"  Of  course,  there  are  many  who  have  such  scruples," 
admitted  Aunt  Edith,  "  and  you  will  find  them  among 
some  of  our  oldest  families,  but  rarely  among  the  ac 
knowledged  leaders  of  our  gay  life." 

"  If  I  were  an  acknowledged  leader,  I  should  force 
people  to  follow  me,"  said  Gladys  proudly. 

"  Are  you  not  doing  it  now,  more  or  less,  little  girl  ?  " 
asked  her  aunt  good-naturedly. 

Under  a  personality  of  exquisite  delicacy,  Gladys 
held  suggestions  of  an  unquenchable  and  indomitable 

48 


THE   SOCIALIST 

vitality,  of  an  untrammeled  spirit  that  was  carelessly 
and  easily  aloof  from  the  ultimate  influence  of  those 
about  her.  Her  aunt  had  recognized  and  regretted  this 
power  during  the  first  days  of  her  companionship,  and 
her  new  friends  were  unconsciously  influenced  by  it. 

"  She  talks  well,  and  what  she  says  has  a  quality  of 
its  own,"  said  an  older  man,  in  speaking  of  her.  "  But 
the  most  unusual  thing  about  Miss  Lawrence  is  that 
she  dares  to  stop  talking.  Girls  of  her  age  usually  regard 
a  pause  in  the  conversation  as  a  social  disaster  hardly 
to  be  retrieved  in  life,  and  act  accordingly." 

"  That  is  probably  why  Miss  Lawrence  sometimes 
gives  a  fellow  the  feeling  that  she  is  t'  other  side  of  the 
world  when  she  is  sitting  in  the  same  canoe  with  him," 
said  one  of  the  men  who  had  been  piqued  and  charmed 
by  her  moments  of  serene  detachment. 

But  moments  of  detachment  were  rare,  for  into  the 
abandon  of  music  and  dancing,  the  iridescent  brilliancy 
of  ballrooms,  the  excitement  of  opposing  tempera 
ments,  the  intoxication  of  conquest,  and  the  rush  of 
gay  and  shifting  experience,  Gladys  flung  herself  with 
a  passionate  ardor. 

"  She  shows  something  more  than  the  effervescence 
of  average  girlhood  ;  it  is  a  vocation  —  Gladys  has  a 
vocation  for  the  social  world.  She  is  my  own  niece," 
commented  Mrs.  Stanwood,  with  great  satisfaction. 

During  July  neither  Arthur  nor  Dick  had  reap 
peared.  Of  the  former  she  thought  but  little,  but  her 
strong  and  inevitable  liking  for  Dick  was  not  forgotten 
in  the  gay  and  exciting  experience  that  followed  her  first 

49 


THE   EVASION 

meeting  with  him.  The  sense  of  his  existence  lay  in  the 
background  of  her  consciousness  unrecognized  for  days, 
but  always  returned  with  a  sense  of  comfort  and  reliance 
during  the  rare  moments  when  she  experienced  fatigue 
or  disappointment. 

"  I  don't  want  Gladys  to  be  engaged  to  any  one  just 
now,  but  Richard  Copeland  is  very  rich,  and  it  is  a  pity 
to  lose  sight  of  him,"  Mrs.  Stanwood  told  her  hus 
band.  "  So  bring  him  up  the  next  time  you  run  across 
him." 

A  few  days  later  Mr.  Stanwood  did  meet  Dick  in 
Boston  and  brought  him  up  on  the  late  train,  after 
Gladys,  who  was  tired  from  an  exceptionally  gay  week, 
had  gone  to  her  room  for  the  night.  Nor  had  she  ap 
peared  the  next  morning  at  the  hour  when  her  aunt, 
ready  for  church,  met  Dick  on  the  piazza.  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood  was  exquisitely  dressed  in  ecru  lace,  and  carried 
a  prayer-book  which  had  been  illuminated  for  her  at 
a  fabulous  price  by  a  Florentine  artist. 

"  No,  Gladys  does  not  go  to  church,"  she  told  Dick, 
after  greeting  him  cordially.  "  She  is  a  Unitarian,  you 
know.  I  had  hoped  she  would  come  to  hear  our  bishop 
when  the  season  was  in  full  swing  and  she  was  inter 
ested  in  seeing  people  ;  but  she  says  she  would  be 
ashamed  to  go  to  church  for  such  a  reason  as  that. 
She  is  such  a  queer  little  puss ! "  Mrs.  Stanwood 
laughed  her  gay  young  laugh  as  she  pressed  the  button 
to  summon  her  victoria. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  little  church,"  she  continued,  "  one 
of  the  best  copies  of  fourteenth-century  Gothic  in  the 

50 


THE   SOCIALIST 

country,  and  La  Farge  did  a  window  for  us.  It  is  so 
crowded  every  Sunday  that  people  stand  outside  to  hear 
the  service." 

Dick  held  his  pipe  in  his  hand  as  he  leaned  against 
the  piazza  railing,  and  watched  Mrs.  Stanwood.  He  was 
quick  to  seize  the  significance  of  the  ecru  lace,  the 
illuminated  prayer-book,  the  Gothic  church,  and  the 
bishop.  In  these  things  he  saw  the  religion  that  is  the 
luxury  of  fastidious  senses,  and  there  was  the  scorn  of 
youth  in  his  eyes, —  that  violent,  uncompromising  scorn 
which  is  unalloyed  by  tolerance,  pity,  or  humor. 

When  Mrs.  Stanwood's  victoria  had  disappeared 
round  the  curve  of  the  avenue,  Dick  flung  himself 
prone  in  the  shadow  of  the  copper  beech,  for  he  was 
very  tired  after  the  hot  summer  of  work  in  Cambridge. 
And  it  was  not  long  before  Gladys  came  into  the 
garden. 

She  also  was  tired,  and  her  face  in  its  relaxation 
and  languor  seemed  more  transparent  than  before, 
and  more  especially  alluring. 

Unconscious  of  his  presence,  she  wandered  listlessly 
through  the  garden  paths,  between  waxen  lilies  that 
lifted  cups  of  fragrance  nearly  as  high  as  her  head, 
and  sentinel-like  rows  of  hollyhocks,  the  tops  of  which 
her  hand  could  not  have  reached. 

Dick  rose,  but  did  not  speak  as  he  watched  her  mov 
ing  through  the  flowers  that  were  taller  than  herself 
and  seemed  less  flowerlike.  She  was  dressed  in  white, 
and  to  him  the  red  nimbus  of  her  hair  was  as  the  spirit 
of  flame,  while  beside  her  the  hollyhocks  became  rustic 

51 


THE   EVASION 

and  primitive,  the  asters  commonplace,  the  dahlias 
coarse  and  boisterous,  the  heavily  perfumed  lilies  op 
ulent  and  sensuous. 

A  vagrant  breath  from  the  sea  passed  through  the 
garden,  and  as  Gladys  lifted  her  face  to  meet  it  she 
saw  Dick. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  here,"  she  said,  as  her 
hand  rested  for  a  moment  in  his. 

"  I  have  been  watching  you  for  some  time,"  he  an 
swered.  "  What  were  you  thinking  about  as  you  walked 
through  the  garden  ?  " 

A  dancing  light  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you,"  she  said. 

But  Dick  set  his  face  sternly  and  turned  it  seaward. 

"  I  had  rather  you  did  not  say  those  things  to  me  — 
unless  you  mean  them."  His  voice  was  low  and  hard. 

Gladys  for  one  brief  instant  caught  her  breath,  but 
she  answered  him  almost  at  once.  "  I  do  mean  it.  I 
was  wondering  how  long  it  was  since  you  first  came, 
and  if  you  were  coming  again." 

She  spoke  sincerely,  but  with  a  disarming  lightness 
of  tone,  and  they  moved  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace., 
below  and  beyond  which  stretched  the  sea. 

"  How  good  it  smells,"  she  said,  "  better  than  the 
lilies,  I  think.  I  wish  Uncle  Willie  had  a  yacht. 
Aunt  Edith  says  that  she  would  never  have  married 
him  if  she  had  known  he  did  not  care  for  yachting  or 
fast  horses." 

"  It  seems  a  pity  one  should  not  find  out  those  little 
things  before  going  to  the  altar,"  said  Dick  dryly. 

52 


THE   SOCIALIST 

They  sat  on  the  Italian  balustrade  of  white  plaster 
that  bordered  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  and  were  silent 
for  a  while.  Gladys  kept  her  face  turned  from  the 
garden,  and  lifted  her  head  a  little  to  feel  the  sea 
breeze  on  her  face  and  in  her  hair,  and  Dick  watched 
her. 

"  You  are  tired,"  he  said  finally. 

"  A  little,  but  last  week  was  worth  it." 

"You  care,  then,  for  all  this  sort  of  thing?  " 

"What  sort  of  thing?" 

"The  sort  of  thing  that  is  filling  your  life  this 
summer." 

"  Yes,  I  love  it,"  said  Gladys  defiantly ;  but  then 
she  laughed.  "I  forgot  your  vocation  for  the  mo 
ment,"  she  added. 

"  My  vocation  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  that  of  putting  people  in  the  wrong." 

"You  mean  putting  them  right,"  corrected  Dick, 
smiling. 

The  smile  changed  his  face  so  suddenly  that  Gladys 
forgot  to  answer. 

"  What  is  that?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  a  shame 
fully  misused  book  that  he  had  stuffed  into  his  pocket 
on  rising  to  meet  her.  As  he  handed  it  to  her,  she 
gave  an  exclamation. 

"  Do  you  read  Voltaire  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  Whenever  I  can." 

"  But  was  n't  he  an  atheist?  " 

"  He  was  not  an  atheist.  But  even  if  he  had  been  "  — 
His  eyes  sought  the  sea,  and  into  them  came  the  light 

53 


THE   EVASION 

of  a  smouldering  and  most  bitter  memory,  the  memory 
of  that  which  had  made  his  boyhood  a  dark  place,  where 
there  was  a  great  sorrow,  but  neither  faith  in  God 
nor  help  in  man.  "  Even  if  he  had  been  an  atheist  — 
great  men,  good  men  have  been  atheists,"  he  continued. 
"Voltaire  was  a  great  liberating  force.  He  gave  his 
splendid  intellect  to  the  work  of  abolishing  shams  and 
defending  the  oppressed." 

"  That  sounds  like  something  I  read  once  in  a 
socialistic  tract,"  interrupted  Gladys.  "  Was  Voltaire 
a  socialist?" 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Dick,  smiling. 

"  Perhaps  you  are." 

She  had  not  seriously  believed  it;  but  something 
in  Dick's  face  as  he  returned  the  book  to  his  pocket 
surprised  her. 

"  Are  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick  ;  "  that  is,  I  hope  to  become  one 
when  I  have  learned  enough  of  the  lives  of  the  op 
pressed  to  be  worthy  to  stand  with  them  in  fighting 
the  oppressors." 

Gladys  gasped.  In  her  mind  socialists,  anarchists, 
and  nihilists  were  confused  together  with  all  forces  of 
disorder,  violence,  and  terror,  and  here  stood  Dick, 
making  his  declaration  solemnly,  as  a  man  answers  for 
the  high  faith  of  his  soul. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  she  commanded  him ;  so  very 
willingly  Dick  told  her,  and  was  transformed  in  the 
telling.  There  was  flame  in  his  eyes,  his  unwieldy 
frame  became  spirited  and  expressive,  and  his  voice 

54 


THE   SOCIALIST 

wide-ranged,  powerful,  warm,  in  spite  of  occasional 
harshness,  had  the  qualities  that  fire  and  haunt. 

To  the  knowledge  gained  from  books  he  added  the 
crudely  moulded  ideas  of  his  own  youth,  and  he  had 
the  dangerous  power  of  vitalizing  worn  phrases  with 
life  and  glamour.  It  was  more  the  structure  of  a  dreamer 
than  of  a  thinker  that  he  reared  before  the  girl's  be 
wildered  eyes,  but  she  was  only  conscious  of  standing 
in  the  presence  of  one  of  the  world's  great  issues,  for 
which  men  fight  and  suffer  and  die,  and  knew  her  first 
thrill  of  response  to  the  world's  passion.  While  under 
the  spell  of  his  voice  and  words  she  almost  caught  the 
consuming  flame,  almost  dedicated  herself  with  him  to 
the  cause.  But  when  he  had  finished  speaking,  when 
silence  was  restored  to  the  garden,  and  over  the  bit  of 
high  road  that  wound  near  the  foot  of  the  terrace  was 
to  be  seen  the  home-coming  of  fashionable  church-goers, 
she  brushed  the  hair  from  her  eyes  with  an  impetuous 
movement  which  seemed  at  the  same  time  to  clear  her 
brain. 

"  You  almost  made  a  disciple  of  me,"  she  said ;  "  I 
was  nearly  ready  to  give  up  society  and  start  a  second 
Brook  Farm ;  nearly  —  not  quite.  But  you  are  not 
consistent.  They  tell  me  you  are  rich.  How  can  a 
friend  of  the  oppressed  be  rich  ?  " 

"  The  money  is  not  mine  any  more  than  it  is  the 
street-sweeper's,"  said  Dick  soberly.  "  It  is  only  in  my 
keeping  to  be  used  where  it  is  most  needed.  Unfortu 
nately  it  is  not  even  in  my  keeping  until  I  am  thirty." 

"  So  you  have  years  in  which  to  change  your  mind  ?  " 
55 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  shall  never  change." 

Gladys  laughed.  "  Hear  him,"  she  cried,  apostro 
phizing  the  hollyhocks.  "  He  says  that  he  will  never 
change,  and  he  is  only  twenty-three." 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Stanwood's  carriage  swept  up 
the  curve  of  the  avenue,  and  Gladys  ran  to  meet  her. 
Dick  remained  where  he  was,  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro, 
thinking  as  much  of  the  girl  who  laughed  as  of  the 
cause  to  which  he  was  to  give  his  life.  Suddenly  she 
came  back  to  him. 

"  I  have  just  thought  of  a  story  you  might  like  to 
hear,"  she  said. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  A  man  said  to  a  girl,  '  Mary,  I  wonder  what  God 
is.'  And  the  girl  said  to  the  man,  '  When  you  first 
went  to  college  you  would  n't  have  wondered,  you  would 
have  known.'  Now  if  you  think  the  cap  fits,  you  may 
wear  it." 


CHAPTER  VI 

ATHEIST    AND    MYSTIC 


T 


HE  next  day  was  exceptionally  gay,  and  Dick's 
only  communication  with  Gladys  was  to  hand  her 
a  manuscript. 

"  What  is  it? "  she  asked  curiously. 

"Nothing  but  one  of  the  daily  themes  I  am  doing 
ahead  for  the  English  department  next  winter.  But  I 
wish  you  would  read  it.  This  evening  I  will  tell  you 
why." 

Gladys  made  an  almost  immediate  excuse  to  be 
alone,  and,  tucking  herself  into  the  corner  of  a  large 
armchair  she  read :  — 

"  Faith  and  Doubt  met  in  one  of  the  great  spaces 
between  the  worlds. 

"In  the  eyes  of  Faith  was  light  and  joy;  but  the 
shadowy  eyes  of  Doubt  spoke  of  broken  hearts,  and  a 
great  courage. 

" '  I  had  not  thought  to  meet  you  again,'  she  said. 
'  What  message  have  you  brought  the  century  ? ' 

" '  I  have  brought  the  search  for  knowledge,  and 
bitterness  beyond  the  bitterness  of  death,'  said  Doubt, 
and  for  a  moment  the  joy  in  Faith's  eyes  was  dimmed. 

" '  Where  I  build  you  destroy,'  she  cried.  '  Where  I 
57 


THE   EVASION 

bring  peace  you  torment.  You  tear  the  veil  from 
reverent  eyes ' — 

" '  No  veiled  eyes  are  truly  reverent.' 

" '  And  burn  the  image  in  the  shrine.  Yet  you 
claim  your  mission  to  be  greater  than  mine.' 

" '  Since  the  beginning  men  have  feared  and  hated 
me,'  said  Doubt.  'But  through  me  they  have  come 
to  knowledge,  and  though  it  has  often  destroyed  their 
faith  and  broken  their  hearts,  it  has  brought  them  into 
their  greatest  heritage  —  which  is  truth.' 

"  The  light  had  returned  to  the  eyes  of  Faith.  '  It 
must  be  all  for  the  best,'  she  said.  '  Some  day  you 
and  your  evil  works  will  die.' 

"  There  was  almost  a  smile  in  the  solemn  eyes  of 
Doubt,  as  she  answered, '  Can  you  not  see  that  the  cen 
turies  need  you  less  and  less  ?  Can  you  not  guess  that 
you  are  only  a  crutch  men  are  learning  to  live  with 
out?'" 

That  evening  Gladys  and  Dick  sat  together  on  the 
steps  that  led  down  to  the  sea.  The  sky  was  veiled. 
There  were  no  stars  in  the  dim,  vast  night,  and  they 
seemed  suspended  between  the  echoless  vault  above 
them  and  the  pit  of  darkness  below,  out  of  which 
came  the  occasional  wash  and  sigh  of  a  falling  wave. 

"I  have  read  your  theme,"  said  Gladys,  speaking 
to  the  almost  invisible  figure  beside  her,  "and  I  liked 
it.  Why  did  you  want  me  to  read  it?" 

"  I  wanted  you  to  know  how  I  felt  about  things." 

"  You  mean  the  things  one  believes." 
58 


ATHEIST  AND  MYSTIC 

"  Or  does  not  believe." 

"  We  have  to  believe  in  some  things  that  we  do  not 
know,"  said  the  girl.  "  We  have  to  believe  in  God." 

Dick  was  silent. 

"  Don't  you  believe  in  God?  " 

"  How  is  it  possible  ?  " 

Gladys  was  silent  in  her  turn. 

"  It  is  terrible !  "  she  whispered  at  last.  "  I  thought 
every  one  believed  in  God." 

"  There  have  been  wise  men,  good  men,  great  men, 
who  did  not  believe  in  Him." 

"  But  faith  —  does  that  prove  nothing  ?  " 

"What  faith?" 

"  The  faith  of  the  world  since  the  world  began." 

"  Since  the  world  began  man  has  shown  infinite 
capacity  for  illusion.  There  are  millions  to-day  who 
have  faith  that  a  wooden  statue  will  give  them  the 
wish  of  their  souls,  or  find  their  hat-pin.  If  their  faith 
is  not  evidence  of  truth,  how  should  we  regard  our 
own?" 

"  But  the  Bible  "  — 

"  There  are  so  many  books  of  revelation,  the  Vedas, 
the  Koran,  and  the  Upanishads  ;  and  they  are  all  dif 
ferent,  and  all  claiming  to  be  direct  revelations  of  the 
only  reality;  and  modern  criticism  has  proved  these 
documents  to  have  come  down  to  us  so  bungled,  dis 
torted,  and  inaccurate  in  text,  and  uncertain  as  to  ori 
gin,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  accept  them  as 
evidence,  even  if  the  so-called  revelations  were  any 
thing  but  convictions  generated  in  the  consciousness  of 

59 


THE   EVASION 

ordinary  man,  generated  by  his  own  act  independently 
of  the  supernatural,  at  a  time  of  the  world's  history 
when  the  nations  had  not  stepped  into  the  light  of  ac 
curate  knowledge." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  any  particular  respect 
for  accurate  knowledge,"  said  Gladys.  "  Papa  has  de 
voted  his  life  to  obtaining  it,  and  I  do  not  see  that  it 
has  taught  him  anything  about  life.  It  is  more  impor 
tant  to  know  how  to  deal  with  people  on  this  earth 
than  to  know  whether  the  world  turns  round  the  sun, 
or  the  sun  round  the  world.  The  mystery  is  so  great, 
so  beyond  our  understanding  "  — 

"  That  is  what  they  all  say,"  broke  in  Dick  passion 
ately.  "  As  if  the  fact  that  no  man  can  understand  a 
thing  were  any  sort  of  a  reason  for  believing  it.  In  other 
words,  I  am  to  kick  my  intelligence  behind  me,  and 
accept  a  ready-made  theory  evolved  from  a  world  of 
erring  men,  the  separate  parts  of  which  world  are  only 
agreed  in  calling  the  other  parts  deluded.  Have  I 
shocked  you?  " 

"  You  know  that  you  have  not." 

"Yes,  for  I  believe  that  you  are  one  of  those  who 
dare  to  doubt." 

"How  did  you  begin  to  doubt?"  asked  Gladys. 
And  then  Dick  told  her  the  story  of  his  mother's  death. 

He  told  it  with  pauses  between  his  words,  and 
when  he  had  finished  he  remained  motionless  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  and  suddenly  the  girl  shivered. 

"  Your  story  is  terrible  !  How  could  you  live  ?  How 
could  you  bear  life  afterwards  ?  " 

60 


ATHEIST  AND   MYSTIC 

"  At  first  I  came  near  losing  my  mind,"  continued 
Dick.  "  I  had  not  only  lost  my  mother,  who  had  filled 
my  world,  but  felt  that  I  had  been  betrayed  by  the 
maker  and  ruler  of  worlds.  He  had  held  in  his  hand  that 
which  was  dearer  to  me  than  life,  and  had  withheld  it ; 
He  had  let  me  trust,  and  cheated  me ;  He  had  been 
cruel  and  false  as  few  human  beings  could  be ;  and  yet 
He  was  the  one  from  whom  I  came,  and  to  whom  I 
should  return,  and  without  whom  there  was  no  life  at 
all.  One  thing  I  knew  during  that  time,  which  was 
that  I  hated  God.  I  said  so  openly,  and  it  was  like  de 
claring  myself  to  be  a  leper.  The  boys  left  me  out  of 
their  games  and  pointed  me  out  as  the  child  who  '  hated 
God.'  But  I  spent  hours  meditating  as  to  what  God 
was ;  and  as  I  grew  up  I  came  to  see  what  a  flimsy 
edifice  the  so-called  religions  are ;  and  then  I  saw  the 
truth.  As  I  grew  older  still,  I  found  there  were  great 
and  good  men  who  believed  as  I  did.  I  read  their 
books,  and  learned  from  them  of  the  cosmic  process 
which  is  better  than  jealous  gods,  and  how  nature  had 
worked  patiently  and  grandly  through  the  ages,  bring 
ing  higher  from  lower,  and  turning  very  evil  into  good. 
I  saw  that  if  there  was  no  invisible  greatness  and  good 
ness,  it  was  here  in  this  world,  which  made  living  and 
striving  worth  while.  And  then  I  began  to  think  of 
the  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number,  and  of  what 
was  the  best  way  to  help  sickness,  and  sin,  and  sor 
row." 

"  But  that  is  not  enough ! "  cried  Gladys,  with  a 
passion  that  surprised  herself.  "  One  must  believe  in 

61 


THE  EVASION 

God.   Without  Him  there  has  never  been  enough  in 
this  world  to  satisfy  man." 

"Then  we  must  learn  to  go  hungry,"  said  Dick. 
"  It  is  better  to  possess  a  grain  of  truth  than  a  world 
of  lies.  It  is  better  to  starve,  and  suffer,  and  die,  than 
to  be  comforted  by  an  illusion."  His  voice  rang  with  a 
proud  enthusiasm  for  disbelief,  an  enthusiasm  which 
was  woven  of  the  same  substance  as  that  mystical,  ex 
alted  essence  which  has  inspired  men  to  die  for  faith. 

"But  what  has  it  all  come  from  —  your  disbelief  ?" 
asked  the  girl.  "  From  the  fact  that  a  prayer  was  not 
answered.  I  could  not  believe  in  God  if  prayers  were 
answered.  The  prayer  that  asks  for  things  is  an  im 
pertinence  to  divine  wisdom.  The  angels  must  laugh, 
I  think,  when  ministers  of  Christian  churches  read 
from  their  pulpits  that  Moses  went  on  the  mountain-top 
and  argued  with  the  Lord,  and  made  Him  change  His 
mind  !  " 

"  At  any  rate,  I  wanted  you  to  know,"  he  continued, 
and  because  of  a  subtle  change  in  his  voice  Gladys 
caught  her  breath.  "  I  wanted  you  to  know,  and  I  hoped 
that  you  would  not  hate  me  for  it  —  because  "  —  he 
paused  a  moment  —  "because  I  want  you  to  love  me," 
he  said. 

His  voice  was  very  low,  and  a  great  tenderness  strove 
with  the  harshness  of  it  till  it  wavered  and  almost  broke. 

"  I  want  you  to  love  me.  Do  you  think  that  you 
could?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  How  can  I  tell  —  so  soon  ?  "  Gladys 
faltered  breathlessly. 

62 


ATHEIST  AND   MYSTIC 

"  I  shall  keep  on  loving  you  all  my  life,"  continued 
the  boy,  "  so  I  thought  you  had  better  know  it  at  once, 
and  I  will  wait  till  you  are  ready,  however  long  a  time 
that  may  be  —  but  I  hope  you  will  love  me  soon  —  I 
hope  that  it  will  be  soon." 

Gladys  realized  suddenly  that  it  was  a  wonderful 
thing  to  be  loved,  and  the  thrill  and  the  passion  of  it  so 
overwhelmed  her  that  it  was  some  moments  before  she 
could  speak. 

"  I  have  not  said  that  I  could  love  you  at  all,  I  have 
not  even  thought  of  it,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  Will  you  begin  to  think  of  it  now  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  cannot  promise.  I  do  not  even 
know  that  I  want  to." 

Dick  paused.  "You  will  have  to  think  of  it  now, 
whether  you  want  to  or  not,"  he  said  finally,  and 
though  she  answered  nothing,  she  knew  that  he  was 
right. 

"  I  have  loved  you  since  the  first  moment  I  saw  you," 
he  continued.  "  But  I  did  not  know  it  till  this  morning 
when  you  came  into  the  garden." 

"  Only  since  then!  "  exclaimed  Gladys. 

If  Dick  had  been  a  little  older,  or  a  little  less  in  love, 
he  would  have  heard  disappointment  in  her  voice. 

"  It  seems  as  though  I  had  loved  you  all  my  life,"  he 
answered. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  any  one  can  be  sure  of  loving  at 
all  if  they  have  known  about  it  only  one  day,"  pro 
tested  Gladys. 

"I  was  sure  of  it  when  I  had  only  known  it  one 
63 


THE   EVASION 

second.  Don't  you  believe  it  ?  Don't  you  believe  that 
I  love  you  ?  "  he  insisted,  as  she  remained  silent. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  I  can,  so  soon,"  she  said. 

"  It  seems  impossible  that  you  should  not  believe  it 
when  I  love  you  so  much,"  said  the  boy  slowly,  with  a 
note  of  grave  wonder  in  his  voice,  and  then  he  rose. 
"  If  you  do  not  believe  me,  we  will  not  talk  any  more 
about  it  yet.  I  will  wait,  and  I  shall  keep  on  loving  you. 
Shall  we  go  in  now  ?  " 

He  held  out  his  great  hand  to  help  her  rise,  and  as 
she  did  so  she  felt  that  the  hand  trembled.  • 


CHAPTER  VH 


THE    LOVER 


0, 


'NE  foggy  afternoon  in  the  middle  of  the  week  Dick 
arrived  suddenly  and  claimed  Gladys  for  a  walk.  He 
was  pale  with  the  unhealthy  pallor  that  belongs  to  those 
who  spend  summer  days  working  indoors,  and  his  eyes 
seemed  more  deeply  sunken  than  she  remembered  them. 

"  I  only  have  two  hours,"  he  said,  "  and  the  fog  will 
not  hurt  us.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

Gladys  looked  into  his  eyes,  and,  finding  them  formi 
dable,  she  was  half  tempted  and  half  afraid ;  but  even 
tually  she  went  with  him. 

"  I  read  your  theme  again,  and  I  like  it,"  she  began, 
"  and  I  wish  that  you  would  take  a  summer  course  of 
poetry  instead  of  political  economy." 

But  Dick  was  not  thinking  of  his  theme  or  of  his 
summer  courses,  and  he  turned  his  eyes  on  her  with 
that  in  them  which  a  woman  understands  though  she 
see  it  for  the  first  time,  and  can  never  forget,  though 
she  see  it  but  once. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  said  suddenly. 

For  a  long  time  neither  of  them  spoke  again.  On 
and  on  they  walked  through  the  fog,  till  the  silence  be 
tween  them  became  to  Gladys  vital,  eloquent,  tumultu 
ous,  almost  unbearable.  She  feared  the  words  he  would 

65 


THE   EVASION 

answer  to  any  words  that  she  might  speak;  but  she 
feared  more  to  meet  his  eyes,  heavy  with  pain  and 
mystery,  and  his  presence  at  her  side  in  this  dim  world 
of  phantoms  gave  her  a  sense  of  suffocation. 
"  I  love  you,"  he  said  again. 

Gladys  bent  her  head,  and  quickened  her  pace  in 
unconscious  effort  to  escape  him. 
"  You  believe  it  now  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  When  did  you  first  believe  ?  " 
"  I  think  I  have  always  believed  it." 
"  Have  you  thought  of  me  during  the  week  ?  " 
"  Yes,  often.   I  have  thought  that  I  did  not  love  you." 
"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  see  that  you  do  not." 
There   followed   another   silence,  longer    than    the 
first.   Last  week  he  told  her  gravely  that  he  had  loved 
her  since  the  morning,  and  should  go  on  loving  her  all 
his  life  ;  and  she  had  laughed  at  him,  but  believed  in 
spite  of  her  laughter.   The  fact  of  being  loved  seemed 
sweet  and  wonderful,  and  she  longed  for  the  time  when 
Dick  should  come  again,  and  perhaps  tell  her  more  of 
it.    But  when  he  came  he  was  no  longer  her  friend 
and  companion,  but  a  stern-lipped  person  of  dreadful 
silences.    His  love  that  was  to  her  as  incense,  mystical 
and  sweet,  had  become  a  flood  that  menaced  her  secret 
strongholds.    She  felt  the  stress  of  his  silence  to  be 
greater  than  that  of  his  speech,  and  neither  a  thing  to 
be  endured. 

Suddenly  they  found  themselves  on  a  beach.    The 
sound  and  the  smell  of  the  sea  came  to  them  through 

66 


THE   LOVER 

the  fog,  and  a  wave  licked  upon  the  sand  at  their  feet, 
and  withdrew  into  mystery. 

Dick  looked  down  at  her,  and  saw  that  her  face  was 
damp  with  mist  and  had  grown  pallid  as  a  storm-beaten 
flower. 

"  I  have  tired  you,"  he  exclaimed  quickly,  "  I  have 
been  a  brute.  You  look  done  up  —  you  look  afraid  of 
me." 

Never  had  she  seemed  so  fragile,  and  never  had  he 
been  so  conscious  of  his  own  brute  power. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  answered,  with  spirit.  "  At 
least,  I  should  not  be  afraid  if  I  loved  you  —  nothing 
could  make  me  afraid  then.  But  I  do  not,  —  I  cannot. 
There  is  something  in  me  that  will  not  yield.  A 
woman  must  pay  a  heavy  price  for  loving." 

"  What  price  ?   I  do  not  understand." 

"  Neither  do  I  understand ;  but  I  feel  that  it  is  so." 
She  paused,  looking  seaward,  and  from  out  of  the  fog 
the  sea  seemed  to  speak  with  strange,  deep  voices.  "  I 
do  not  understand,  but  I  think  the  price  is  freedom," 
she  said. 

"  I  would  never  wish  to  take  that  from  you." 

"  If  I  loved  I  could  never  be  quite  free  again.  I  would 
pay  the  price  gladly,  —  if  I  loved,  —  but  I  cannot ! 
I  cannot !  There  is  something  —  I  do  not  know  what 
it  is,  but  it  is  something  free  and  untamed  that  is  ours 
—  that  is  a  woman's  until  she  loves,  and  I  do  not  want 
you  or  any  man  to  take  that  from  me  yet.  I  want  to 
make  the  laws  of  my  own  life  —  sing  my  own  songs  for 
myself  a  while  longer." 

67 


THE   EVASION 

"  But  I  would  never  wish  you  to  sing  any  but  your 
own  songs." 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "You  could  not  help  it. 
If  I  loved  you,  all  my  songs  would  be  for  you.  Cannot 
you  understand  ?  " 

"  It  seems  not,"  answered  Dick  wearily,  passing  his 
hand  over  his  forehead.  "  You  talk  as  though  it  were 
a  question  of  going  into  slavery,  because  I  offer  you 
the  work  of  my  hands  and  brain,  and  the  devotion  of 
my  heart  —  while  I  live."  He  looked  down  at  her  with 
haggard  eyes.  "I  very  much  fear  that  this  last  is 
yours  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  whether  you  want  it  or 
not,"  he  added. 

With  a  quick,  unconscious  gesture  she  touched  his 
arm. 

"  You  are  unhappy,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  I  am  sorry  !  I 
cannot  bear  it !  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  unhappy  — 
about  me.  I  am  going,"  she  added  unsteadily,  as  she 
turned  from  him.  "  I  must  be  alone.  I  will  go  home 
by  the  shore,  and  you  must  not  follow  me.  I  must  be 
alone."  In  another  moment  she  was  lost  in  the  fog. 

Dick  stood  where  she  had  left  him,  and  looked  down 
at  the  place  on  his  sleeve  where  her  hand  had  been. 

On  her  way  home  the  wind  rose,  and  while  she  strug 
gled  against  it  and  bent  her  head  to  escape  the  oncom 
ing  rain,  her  breath  was  caught  in  short,  gasping  sobs, 
for  the  pain  in  Dick's  eyes  haunted  her,  and  in  this 
hour  was  first  given  her  the  knowledge  that  life  is  a 
profound,  a  passionate,  and  possibly  a  terrible  thing. 

She  seemed  to  have  walked  a  long  time  when  a 
68 


THE   LOVER 

familiar  cliff  loomed  through  the  fog.  A  narrow  strip 
of  sand  separated  it  from  the  sea,  and  there  she  found 
Dick  waiting  for  her  with  umbrella  and  waterproof. 

"  The  rain  came  on  almost  directly  after  you  left,  so 
I  hurried  to  get  these,"  he  said,  and  helped  her  into 
her  ulster  without  further  words.  When  he  had  handed 
her  the  open  umbrella,  he  stood  well  beyond  its  shelter, 
and,  with  the  rain  dripping  from  the  rim  of  his  hat 
and  trickling  down  his  dark  features,  he  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  started  to  explain  matters. 

"  I  thought  it  over  as  I  came  along,"  he  began,  "  and 
I  see  that  I  have  been  a  brute  to  let  myself  go  as  I 
did.  I  am  ashamed  and  sorry  for  it.  You  should  n't 
be  bothered,  however  much  a  man  might  love  you,  and 
I  will  try  not  to  bother  you  again  until  you  are  ready. 
Then  there  is  another  thing."  He  paused  before  con 
tinuing.  "  You  were  sorry  for  me  a  little  while  ago," 
he  went  on,  with  something  of  an  effort.  "  Oh,  don't 
think  I  misunderstand !  Don't  think  I  hope  you  are 
beginning  to  love  me  because  you  are  sorry  for  me. 
I  know  you  would  be  sorry  for  any  beggar  that  was 
hurt.  But  you  mustn't  waste  time  that  way  for  me. 
I  am  not  sorry  for  myself.  I  have  never  been  so  happy 
as  during  some  of  the  hours  since  I  knew  that  I  loved 
you ;  and  as  for  the  rest  of  the  hours,  when  perhaps  I 
am  not  so  happy — why,  they  are  my  affair.  But  I 
shall  keep  on  loving  you  whether  I  talk  about  it  or 
not.  I  want  you  to  know  that,  and  I  shall  never  stop 
trying  to  make  you  love  me,  till  I  hear  from  your  own 
lips  that  you  care  for  some  one  else." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DICK    AND    ARTHUR 

HE  next  time  Dick  came  to  visit  her,  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood  deemed  it  important  to  have  a  few  words  with 
him  about  Gladys,  and  she  approached  the  subject 
with  her  usual  directness. 

"  Of  course  you  know  that  I  do  not  wish  Gladys  to 
engage  herself  to  any  one  before  the  end  of  next  win 
ter,"  she  said.  "I  shall  do  everything  I  can  to  pre 
vent  such  an  occurrence." 

"  Then,  as  long  as  I  am  accepting  your  hospitality,  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  say  that  I  shall  do  all  in  my  power 
to  persuade  her  to  engage  herself  to  me  at  the  earliest 
possible  date." 

"  If  you  could  wait,"  she  continued,  "  I  would  do 
everything  I  could  to  help  you  —  after  next  winter." 

"I  don't  think  I  care  to  wait,"  said  Dick,  slowly 
and  with  great  deliberation. 

"So  we  are  avowed  antagonists,"  answered  Mrs. 
Stanwood,  with  a  charming  smile.  "  But  this  does  not 
mean  that  you  are  not  always  welcome  —  more  than 
welcome  —  here,  provided  you  can  make  up  your  mind 
not  to  pass  so  much  time  with  Gladys." 

The  result  of  these  few  words  was  that  Dick  took 
his  dress  suit  case  down  to  the  inn  that  afternoon, 

70 


DICK   AND   ARTHUR 

but  met  Gladys  on  a  moonlight  sailing  party  in  the 
evening. 

"  I  was  a  fool,"  said  her  aunt  to  Leslie  Aldrich,  who 
had  come  to  pass  the  night.  She  spoke  to  him  on  the 
subject,  not  because  he  would  give  her  sympathy,  but 
because  he  would  understand.  "  I  was  a  fool,  and  my 
methods  absolutely  crude.  I  might  have  known  that  I 
could  not  influence  him,  and  it  is  as  important  to  know 
when  you  cannot  influence  as  to  know  when  you 
can." 

"  The  Emperor  of  Austria  failed  to  influence  his  own 
son  in  a  love  affair,"  observed  Mr.  Aldrich.  "  I  like 
the  boy,"  he  added. 

"  So  do  I,  and  he  has  so  much  money  that  I  should 
have  no  objection  to  his  marrying  her,  if  he  would  only 
wait.  But  to  have  an  engaged  girl  to  bring  out  is 
hardly  what  I  planned  for.  Then  there  are  his  social 
theories.  Perhaps,  being  a  socialist,  he  would  not  allow 
himself  to  keep  money." 

"  As  nearly  as  I  can  make  out,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich, 
"  the  socialist  would  take  money  away  from  the  rich, 
who  know  how  to  use  it,  and  give  it  to  the  poor,  who 
do  not,  thereby  reversing  the  rule  of  life,  and  of  the 
Scriptures,  which  say  that  '  to  him  who  hath  shall  be 
given,  and  from  him  who  hath  not  shall  be  taken  away 
even  that  which  he  hath.'  " 

"  It  seems  such  a  very  uncomfortable  doctrine,  so 
very  inconvenient  and  ill-fitting,  that  he  may  give  it 
up,"  suggested  Mrs.  Stanwood. 

"  He  does  not  look  like  the  kind  of  person  who 
71 


THE   EVASION 

gives  things  up,"  observed  Mr.  Aldrich.  "  One  would 
say,  on  the  contrary,  that  he  was  one  to  lead  forlorn 
hopes." 

"  I  don't  feel  sure  that  any  money  could  make  up 
for  a  husband  who  led  forlorn  hopes." 

Mr.  Aldrich  made  no  reply,  for  the  reason  that  he 
was  not  listening.  He  looked  out  on  the  moonlit  water, 
and  saw  the  days  of  his  youth. 

"  On  the  whole,"  he  said  dreamily,  "  I  do  not  pity 
the  leader  of  forlorn  hopes." 

"  I  was  speaking  of  his  wife,"  Mrs.  Stanwood  re 
minded  him. 

"  I  led  one  myself  once,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich,  still  not 
hearing  her. 

"  You,  Leslie, —  nonsense !  " 

"  It  was  before  I  met  you,  Edith." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  deliberately  ignored  the  significance 
of  his  remark.  Leslie  was  growing  old,  and  had  the 
gout,  and  quarreling  was  disagreeable. 

"  I  remember,  it  was  in  one  of  our  Indian  raids," 
she  said  pleasantly;  "and  you  were  successful,  were 
you  not  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  he  answered,  "  though  that  is  hardly 
what  matters." 

A  little  later  he  spoke  of  Gladys.  "  I  like  the  girl, 
too,"  he  said.  "  She  is  a  creature  of  flame  and  nerves. 
Life  will  speak  to  her  with  many  voices.  Some  women 
with  that  temperament  have  creative  power,  and  then 
they  are  geniuses  ;  some  prey  upon  themselves,  con 
suming  their  own  powder,  and  they  become  nervous  in- 

72 


DICK   AND   ARTHUK 

valids.   Few  are  happy,  though  endowed  with  the  most 
exquisite  capacity  for  happiness." 

Before  the  end  of  the  week,  Dick  had  finished  his 
work  in  Cambridge,  and  went  again  to  see  Gladys.  On 
coming  out  of  the  smoking-car,  the  sight  of  Arthur 
emerging  from  the  other  end,  gave  him  an  unpleasant 
shock,  for  he  knew  at  once  that  Davenport  must  be 
going  to  the  Stanwoods.  Not  being  intimate  or  partic 
ularly  friendly,  the  young  men  greeted  each  other  with 
a  solemn  handshake  instead  of  the  blows  on  the  back  or 
chest,  and  the  abusive  language,  which  is  the  college 
form  of  affectionate  greeting.  There  followed  a  pause 
which  women  would  have  found  embarrassing,  and  dur 
ing  which  Dick  took  comfort  from  the  fact  that  Arthur 
was  not  as  handsome  as  he  had  been  in  the  middle  of 
the  summer,  while  Arthur  was  saying  to  himself,  with 
the  surprise  born  of  sudden  encounter,  "  What  an  ugly 
brute  Copeland  is !  " 

"  I  suppose  they  have  sent  something  to  take  us  up," 
he  said  aloud,  looking  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the 
carriages. 

"  I  am  staying  at  the  club,"  said  Dick. 

"  How  absurd !  "  exclaimed  Arthur.  "  My  aunt  won't 
like  it.  While  you  are  here,  you  ought  to  be  with  us. 
I  will  answer  for  you." 

"Mrs.  Stan  wood  might  be  glad  to  see  me — if  I 
could  answer  for  myself,"  said  Dick,  knowing  that 
Arthur  could  not  understand. 

"That  is  all  nonsense,"  persisted  Arthur.  "But 
73 


THE   EVASION 

hang  it  all !  I  am  not  going  to  drive  up  alone  with  that 
English  automaton  who  sits  on  the  box.  I  will  walk 
part  of  the  way  with  you.  It  will  give  me  some  exer 
cise." 

As  they  fell  into  step  on  the  road,  Dick  wondered  at 
Arthur's  cordiality,  and  it  occurred  to  him  then  and 
several  times  during  the  walk,  that  the  boy  wished  to 
ask  him  for  something.  But  very  soon  he  ceased  to 
wonder  about  him  at  all,  for  he  was  thinking  of  Gladys. 
Lights  came  deep  into  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  smiled. 
He  was  looking,  at  that  vision  of  mystery,  beauty,  and 
rapture  which  is  love,  and  the  light  of  it  was  on  his 
face.  In  this  moment  the  ecstasy  of  poets  was  his,  as 
it  has  been  the  heritage  of  lovers  since  the  beginning. 
But  gradually  Arthur's  words  forced  themselves  upon 
his  attention. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  chaps  with  money,"  he 
was  saying  gloomily. 

"Money?  "  repeated  Dick  vaguely. 

"  Yes.  I  say  it 's  all  very  well  for  you  chaps  with 
money.  You  can  look  round  and  take  time.  But  what 
is  a  poor  beggar  like  me  to  do  ?  Uncle  Will  is  a  brick. 
He  put  me  through  college ;  but  after  this  he  says  I 
must  make  my  own  way  as  he  did.  And  a  man  must 
live ;  if  he  is  a  gentleman  he  must  have  money  for  cer 
tain  things." 

"You  mean  such  things  as  cigars  and  club  dues," 
observed  Dick. 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  mean  a  decent  roof  over  his  head,  and 
food  to  keep  him  alive.  I  mean  money  enough  to  keep 

74 


DICK   AND   ARTHUK 

him  out  of  jail  without  taking  the  poor  debtor's  oath," 
said  Arthur,  with  unexpected  passion.  "  I  tell  you,  life 's 
pretty  rough,  in  ways  you  fellows  with  money  don't 
dream  of." 

Dick  was  silent.  He  knew  now  that  Arthur  must  be 
in  serious  money  difficulties,  but  was  so  little  intimate 
with  him  that  an  offer  of  help  would  have  seemed  a 
liberty.  Neither  spoke  for  a  time,  and  Dick's  mind  was 
again  straying  among  elysian  fields,  when  they  came 
upon  a  village  exhibition  of  jugglery  presided  over  by 
an  Irishman  from  the  Bowery,  who  by  a  certain  ar 
rangement  of  hair  and  beard  had  changed  his  Hiber 
nian  countenance  into  a  ludicrous  semblance  of  Indian 
mystery. 

Both  young  men  stopped  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd,  as  much  to  relieve  the  tension  of  their  silence 
as  to  see  what  was  going  on.  There  was  nothing  un 
usual  in  the  performance.  The  impossible  was  demon 
strated  with  teasing  facility.  Space  and  time  were 
transcended.  Live  stock,  in  the  shape  of  rabbits  and 
crowing  roosters,  was  produced  from  a  teacup  of  dry 
sawdust.  Yards  of  sausages  were  drawn  from  the  waist 
coat  of  an  indignant  bookkeeper,  and  Arthur's  own 
immaculate  shirt  front  yielded  an  unexpected  harvest 
in  the  form  of  eggs. 

But  to  both  men  these  things  were  an  old  and  weari 
some  story,  and  Dick  was  moving  away  when  Arthur 
put  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  I  say !  look  at  this,  it  is  worth  while,"  he  exclaimed, 
as  the  juggler  drew  out  a  pack  of  cards  and  began  to 

75 


THE   EVASION 

explain  and  illustrate  the  tricks  by  which  professional 
gamblers  won  their  game.  The  performance  was  so 
clever  that  as  the  entertainment  broke  up  Dick  re 
marked  that  had  a  warrant  been  out  for  a  gambler 
and  were  an  officer  present,  their  entertainer's  liberty 
would  have  been  worth  little  more  than  the  fleetness 
of  his  heels. 

After  his  momentary  excitement,  Arthur  relapsed 
into  gloom. 

"  I  don't  see  why  one  should  n't  envy  those  chaps 
who  are  clever  enough  to  be  dishonest  with  safety,  and 
under  no  obligations  of  conscience  or  the  opinion  of 
their  social  world  to  be  honest,"  he  said.  "If  they  get 
into  a  scrape,  and  want  some  extra  plug,  there 's  a  turn 
of  the  wrist,  and  the  world  is  their  own  again." 

They  had  come  to  the  crossroads,  and  paused  before 
going  in  different  directions.  Arthur  stood  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  a  frown  on  his  handsome  brow, 
and  something  more  than  discontent  in  the  eyes  beneath. 
Dick  looked  at  him  with  awakened  curiosity,  in  which 
there  was  also  sympathy.  He  seemed  too  handsome, 
too  finely  fibred,  too  genial,  and  altogether  too  lovable 
a  creature  to  be  harassed  by  the  sordid  and  coarse 
grained  seams  of  life;  and  unfit,  in  spite  of  his  six 
feet  two  of  brawn  and  muscle,  to  grapple  with  issues 
that  have  an  ugly  and  loutish  inevitableness  of  result. 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  see  you  at  the  club  this  even 
ing,"  Arthur  continued,  with  an  unsuccessful  attempt 
to  throw  off  his  depression. 

"I  may  look  in,"  said  Dick;  and  then  they  paused, 
76 


DICK  AND  ARTHUR 

lingering  still  at  the  crossroads,  as  though  there  were 
something  more  to  say. 

Dick  shifted  his  bag  to  the  other  hand,  and  his  face 
was  more  than  usually  harsh  and  uncompromising,  be 
cause  he  was  trying  to  make  Arthur  an  offer  of  help. 

"  I  say  "  —  began  Arthur  himself  suddenly. 

"  Yes  ?  "  answered  Dick. 

"  I  say  —  you  won't  repeat  anything  I  have  said 
about  the  poor  debtor's  oath,  and  all  that,  to  Uncle 
Will?" 

His  smile  as  he  asked  the  favor  was  lacking  in  its 
habitual  radiance. 

"Of  course  I  won't  say  anything,"  Dick  assured 
him.  "  Why  don't  you  ?  "  he  suggested. 

"Oh,  because  —  he  would  ask  questions." 

"  Why  not  tell  some  one  who  won't  ask  questions  ?  " 

Arthur  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  If  he  means  to 
help  me  out,  why  does  n't  he  say  so  ? "  he  thought ; 
while  Dick  told  himself  that  Arthur  must  now  under 
stand  that  help  was  there,  supposing  it  were  agreeable 
to  him  to  accept  it.  They  stood  a  little  longer,  and  then 
Arthur  said:  — 

"  Well,  so-long.    See  you  at  the  club." 

But  still  he  seemed  hesitating,  while  Dick  wondered 
if  he  should  offer  plainly  and  Arthur  if  he  should  ask 
frankly  ;  but  the  sum  was  a  shameful  one.  "  And  hang 
it  all,"  he  told  himself,  "  a  fellow  can't  ask  a  thing 
like  money  of  a  man  he  hardly  knows,  particularly 
when  he  is  after  the  girl  you  may  decide  to  go  in  for 
yourself !  " 

77 


THE   EVASION 

Appreciation  of  his  own  moral  fastidiousness  restored 
his  confidence,  and  before  Dick  could  speak  Arthur 
straightened  his  shoulders,  said  "  So-long  "  again  with 
considerable  cheerfulness,  and  swung  along  the  road 
with  erect  head,  every  motion  expressive  of  a  splendid, 
perfectly  balanced  strength  that  was  good  to  see. 

He  went  up  towards  the  dwellings  of  those  who 
lived  for  ease  and  pleasure,  and,  remembering  that  he 
would  find  Gladys  there,  Dick  sighed  unconsciously 
before  he  turned  and  went  down  to  the  village. 


CHAPTER  IX 

TRUANCY 


T 


HAT  afternoon  there  was  a  concert  at  the  club.  It 
was  a  country  club,  and  neither  money  nor  talent  had 
been  spared  to  ensure  its  success.  The  grounds  were 
spacious,  the  clubhouse  low-gabled  and  picturesque, 
and  it  was  a  centre  of  growing  popularity  for  the  gay 
life  within  a  radius  of  several  miles.  Private  tennis 
courts,  billiard  rooms,  smoking  rooms,  and  even  din 
ing  rooms  were  being  deserted  for  those  of  the  club. 
"  Which  is  simply  one  of  the  unfortunate  inelegancies 
of  this  over-blown,  over-restless,  superficially  active 
American  life,"  said  Mrs.  Stanwood ;  but  she  paid  its 
subscriptions  and  attended  its  entertainments,  like 
every  one  else. 

This  afternoon  the  lawns  and  golf  grounds  lay 
almost  deserted  under  the  August  sun,  while  a  large 
audience  of  fashionable  and  unwilling  listeners  filled 
the  club  parlors,  and  overflowed  on  to  the  piazzas. 
They  had  come  because  one  of  their  own  set  was  per 
forming,  and,  though  he  performed  but  poorly,  it  was 
necessary  to  buy  his  tickets  and  be  present  when  he 
played. 

Gladys  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  piazza,  and  was  exceed 
ingly  bored.  Fashionable  life  seemed  a  profitless  affair, 

79 


THE   EVASION 

and  sea  wind  blowing  in  over  the  meadows  made  her 
restless  for  wide  spaces. 

"  I  thought  you  were  young  enough  to  know  bet 
ter,"  said  Dick's  voice  suddenly,  almost  at  her  ear. 

She  started,  and  turned  to  find  him  standing  just 
outside  the  piazza  rail  against  which  she  was  leaning. 
The  color  flooded  her  face,  and  she  knew  that  she  was 
very  glad  to  see  him.  Dick  knew  it,  too,  but  he  knew 
also  that  she  was  not  yet  glad  in  the  way  he  wished. 

"  Only  those  who  have  lived  long  enough  to  forget 
what  is  worth  while  are  willing  to  pass  an  August 
afternoon  in  such  a  way  as  this,"  he  continued.  "  I 
thought  you  were  young  enough  to  know  better." 

"  I  thought  people  were  usually  old  enough  to  know 
better." 

"  That  is  a  mistake,"  said  Dick,  "  discovered  only  by 
the  young." 

She  laughed,  conscious  of  being  well  pleased  with 
him. 

"I  haven't  looked  at  the  programme,"  said  Dick, 
"  but  I  think  I  know  who  it  is;"  and  he  mentioned  the 
name. 

"  Yes.   How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  him  before.  When  he  left  college,  he 
tried  State  Street  as  a  means  of  support,  but  the  office 
hours  were  bad,  and  he  had  n't  the  stock  exchange  in 
stinct,  and  altogether  it  seemed  degrading  work ;  so  he 
took  to  music,  for  which  he  had  always  shown  a  tal 
ent, — having  led  the  glee  club  four  years  at  Harvard, 
—  and  his  fashionable  relations  helped  to  support  him 

80 


TKUANCY 

during  a  course  of  study  at  a  German  conservatory; 
since  then  his  fashionable  relations,  aided  by  his  fash 
ionable  friends,  have  continued  to  support  him  by  buy 
ing  tickets  for  his  concerts,  and  paying  the  prices  for 
them  that  they  would  pay  to  hear  great  artists." 

"  But  after  all,"  said  Gladys,  "  you  are  here  your 
self." 

"  Because  you  are."  He  made  the  statement  as  a 
simple  matter  of  plain  fact.  "  He  will  not  play  any 
thing  in  a  way  that  you  could  enjoy,  so  you  had  better 
come  away  with  me." 

"  No,"  said  Gladys,  "  I  am  going  to  stay.  I  won't 
pretend  to  like  it,  but  I  regard  it  as  a  charity.  You,  as 
a  socialist,  ought  to  help  charity." 

"I,  as  a  socialist,  do  not  approve  of  charity.  I  see 
that  I  must  give  you  a  lecture  on  socialism,  but  this  is 
neither  the  time  nor  the  place.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

"  Poor  fellow ! "  continued  Gladys.  "  He  must  do 
something.  What  can  he  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Dick.  "  Certainly  not  music, 
possibly  typesetting." 

"  Hush,"  she  said,  "  I  think  he  is  going  to  play 
again." 

"It  is  highly  probable.  He  will  play  industriously 
for  an  hour  or  so.  He  will  play  industriously  and  con 
scientiously  through  several  sonatas  of  Beethoven  "  — 

"  We  have  had  one  already,"  interrupted  Gladys. 

"  Good,  that  will  be  one  less.  He  will  continue  with 
a  Brahms  variation  or  two,  some  Schumann  and  Bach, 
and  he  may  give  us  a  nocturne  or  so  from  Chopin, 

81 


THE   EVASION 

which,  he  would  have  us  understand,  are  thrown  in 
purely  to  satisfy  those  who  crave  the  sensuous  and  sen 
sational." 

"  How  do  you  know  so  much  about  music  ?  "  asked 
Gladys,  surprised. 

"  There  is  a  beach  not  far  away,"  continued  Dick ; 
"  they  call  it  the  '  Singing  Beach '  because  it  has  golden 
sands  that  sing  when  you  walk  on  them.  It  is  an  in 
comparable  beach,  —  lonely,  and  solemn,  and  beautiful. 
It  is  bounded  by  strange  rocks,  and  looks  out  over 
measureless  horizons  of  waters;  and  grand,  stately 
breakers  from  mid-ocean  come  up  on  it  with  every 
tide." 

"  I  have  wanted  Aunt  Edith  to  drive  me  there  all 
summer,"  said  Gladys. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  now  ?" 

She  was  silent,  picturing  to  herself  the  beach  as  he 
described  it. 

"  What  might  not  happen  on  a  singing  beach  ?  "  he 
urged. 

She  turned  to  him  quickly,  about  to  speak,  but  he 
prevented  her. 

"  I  promise  to  be  perfectly  good  if  you  will  go  with 
me,"  he  assured  her  calmly. 

"But  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  I  do  not  love  you." 

"  Never  mind  about  that  now.    Will  you  come  ?  " 

And  Gladys  went. 


CHAPTER  X 

A    GAME    OF    POKER 

JL  HAT  evening  Gladys  went  again  to  the  club,  this 
time  to  a  dinner,  and  on  the  way  there  she  leaned  back 
in  the  gloom  of  the  carriage  and  thought  of  Dick,  and 
of  the  afternoon  with  him  on  the  "  Singing  Beach." 

He  had  been  "  perfectly  good,"  according  to  his  pro 
mise.  Lying  at  her  feet,  with  his  head  supported  by  his 
hand,  he  never  spoke  once  of  his  love,  but  asked  her 
of  her  own  life,  and  listened  to  what  she  told  him  with 
steady,  deep-lit  eyes  on  her  face,  smiling  now  and  then, 
a  sensitive  smile  of  rare  sweetness.  It  was  his  smile, 
and  the  change  it  wrought  in  his  face  remained  with 
her  now  more  clearly  than  the  golden  sands,  and  the 
solemn  roll  of  the  breakers  coming  in  upon  them. 
She  remembered  something  Mr.  Aldrich  had  once  said 
of  Dick. 

"  His  face  gives  the  impression  of  mere  brute  force," 
he  had  remarked,  "until  you  look  again  and  see  that 
his  lips  are  sensitive,  pitifully  sensitive  for  a  man.  He 
will  try,  and  blunder,  and  fail,  as  most  men  do,  but  I 
think  he  will  try  more  desperately  than  most,  and  blun 
der  more  —  for  he  is  not  one  to  consider  expediencies 
—  and,  with  those  lips,  suffer  abominably." 

Leaning  back  with  closed  eyes,  Gladys  wondered  if 
83 


THE   EVASION 

Mr.  Aldrich  were  right.  Dick's  love  had  grown  to  be 
a  sacred  thing  in  her  life,  a  thing  that  made  her  at 
once  humble  and  proud.  He  had  captured  her  imagi 
nation,  and  in  these  flushed,  untried  hours  of  her  youth, 
she  might  well  have  mistaken  this  for  love,  as  millions 
have  done  before  her,  and  will  do  again. 

But  Gladys  possessed  an  unexpected  power  of  clear 
and  level  vision.  She  knew  that  she  did  not  love  Dick, 
but  she  knew  also  that  she  might  some  day  learn  to 
do  so. 

The  dinner  was  as  other  dinners.  She  sat  next 
to  Arthur,  who  had  temporarily  banished  care.  His 
smile  was  as  radiant,  his  eyes  as  unclouded,  as  ever. 
Gladys  looked  at  the  smile,  and  told  herself  that  she 
preferred  Dick's.  She  looked  also,  and  often,  into  his 
eyes  and  his  handsome  face,  and  told  herself  again  that 
she  preferred  to  look  at  Dick.  She  listened  to  his  easy, 
amiable  remarks,  and  compared  them  to  Dick's  con 
versation,  which  was  brilliant,  sarcastic,  and  warm  by 
turns. 

"  One  could  fill  a  woman's  world  if  he  chose,  but  the 
other  could  never  occupy  more  than  a  corner,"  she  told 
herself. 

And  having  decided  these  things,  she  proceeded  to 
devote  herself  to  her  cousin  with  a  willingness  that 
deceived  every  one  at  table  save  himself  and  her  aunt. 
The  cool,  detached  spirit  that  looked  out  behind  the 
laughter  in  her  eyes  was  not  that  which  Arthur  was 
accustomed  to  find  in  the  glances  of  the  women  to 
whom  it  seemed  worth  his  while  to  be  agreeable.  But 

84 


A   GAME   OF  POKER 

he  was  as  little  vain  as  it  was  possible  for  a  man  to 
be  under  the  circumstances,  and  accepted  his  cousin's 
indifference  with  perfect  good  humor,  and  without 
lessening  the  attitude  of  devotion  it  was  so  natural 
for  him  to  assume.  But  after  the  dinner  was  over,  and 
as  soon  as  it  was  possible  to  do  so  with  courtesy,  he 
sought  some  men  in  the  billiard  room  and  started  a 
game  of  cards.  Not  long  afterwards  Mrs.  Stanwood 
and  her  niece,  passing  along  the  piazza  on  their  way  to 
the  carriage,  paused  to  look  in  upon  him.  The  men 
they  had  dined  with  were  sitting  at  a  large  table  upon 
which  were  cards  and  chips  and  glasses  of  whiskey, 
while  on  a  smaller  table  near  at  hand  were  fresh  packs 
of  cards  and  unopened  bottles  of  whiskey.  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood  noted  these  things  with  an  experienced  eye. 

"  I  shall  not  expect  Arthur  or  Willie  home  before 
morning,"  she  said  carelessly. 

"  It  is  n't  bridge,  is  it  ?  "  asked  Gladys,  watching  the 
scene  wonderingly. 

"  No,  it  is  poker ;  but  if  bridge  turns  out  as  it  pro 
mises,  it  will  not  be  long  before  our  private  houses  look 
as  much  like  a  gambling  saloon  as  this  does,"  she  said 
contemptuously,  and  was  passing  on  when  Dick  entered 
the  room  from  the  door  facing  them,  and  she  paused, 
thinking  the  sight  of  him  at  a  card  table  might  be  a 
salutary  lesson  for  her  niece. 

He  moved  deliberately  toward  the  players,  and  stood 
looking  on  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  Mrs. 
Stanwood  became  suddenly  aware  that  he  was  watching 
Arthur,  who  sat  with  his  back  to  the  window.  Then 

85 


THE   EVASION 

he  came  round  to  his  side,  and,  putting  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  said  something  to  him.  It  seemed  to  Mrs. 
Stanwood  that  he  was  asking  him  to  come  away,  but 
Arthur  shook  him  off  impatiently,  and  after  a  moment's 
pause,  Dick,  in  answer  to  a  sign  from  one  of  the  other 
men,  seated  himself  at  the  table  and  took  a  hand. 

The  whole  thing  had  taken  only  an  instant,  but  the 
incidents  stamped  themselves  forever  upon  the  girl's 
consciousness. 

"  Was  that  just  an  ordinary  game  of  cards  —  for 
men  ?  "  she  asked,  on  the  way  home. 

Her  aunt  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  They  usually 
look  like  that  when  they  play,"  she  said. 

"I  do  not  believe  that  was  an  ordinary  game," 
Gladys  insisted  a  little  later,  but  she  offered  no  expla 
nation  for  her  conviction.  The  last  thing  she  remem 
bered,  before  falling  asleep,  was  the  flushed,  excited 
face  that  Arthur  had  shown  her  as  he  turned  to  answer 
Dick. 

At  midnight,  the  group  of  men  still  sat  round  the 
card  table.  They  were  silent  now,  and  rather  grim. 
Several  of  them  had  taken  off  their  collars,  for  the 
night  was  warm,  and  their  shirts  were  tumbled  and 
soiled  with  cigar  ashes.  The  air  was  thick  with  tobacco 
smoke,  and  one  or  two  of  the  whiskey  bottles  were 
empty. 

Dick  had  been  winning  steadily,  and  the  flush  was 
gone  from  Arthur's  face,  which  was  very  pale.  Once 
he  took  the  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  turned  slowly  to 
stare  at  Dick  from  under  lowered  brows.  The  last 

86 


A   GAME   OF  POKES 

three  hours  had  swept  all  refinement  and  beauty  from 
his  features,  which  had  grown  haggard,  sullen,  and 
brutalized. 

"You  learned  those  card  tricks  well,"  he  said  de 
liberately. 

From  that  moment  the  luck  shifted,  and  Arthur  won 
phenomenally.  Gladys  was  right,  —  this  was  not  an 
ordinary  game. 

A  few  hours  later,  the  six  men  still  sat  at  the  card 
tables.  They  were  hollow-eyed  and  disheveled,  for  the 
fiercest  passion  known  to  civilization  had  been  at  work 
among  them  all  night.  The  room  was  foul  with  stale 
tobacco  smoke  and  the  fumes  of  whiskey,  when  sud 
denly  the  dawn,  wan  and  solemn,  came  into  it.  One  of 
the  players,  looking  up  and  seeing  the  gray  light  at 
the  window,  stopped  his  deal. 

"  It  is  day  !  "  he  exclaimed.  One  by  one,  they  lifted 
their  eyes  to  the  eastern  window,  and  the  spell  of  the 
night  slipped  from  them,  leaving  with  each  man  a  feel 
ing  of  degradation,  and  the  sense  of  possessing  a  name 
less  but  violent  grudge  against  his  neighbor. 

One  of  them  rose  stiffly,  and  stretched  himself. 
"  Seems  like  a  dream  —  a  bad  one,"  he  said. 

"  I  guess  it  won't  seem  a  dream  after  breakfast,  when 
you  look  at  the  cold  figures,"  said  another,  straight 
ening  his  collar  as  he  spoke,  and  brushing  some  cigar 
ashes  from  his  cuff.  He  looked  about  the  dim,  evil- 
smelling  room  with  as  much  disgust  as  though  he  had 
just  come  into  it.  "  You  may  wash  us,  and  shave  us, 
and  clothe  us  as  you  will,  but  we  are  all  brutes  at  the 

87 


THE   EVASION 

bottom,"  he  muttered  discontentedly,  staring  at  his 
companions  with  sullen  suspicion,  as  though  they  were 
severally  responsible  for  his  discomfort. 

"  Oh !  shut  up,  Morrison !  You  make  me  tired ! 
Don't  you  suppose  we  have  enough  to  stand  without 
a  moral  at  this  hour  of  the  day  ? "  grunted  another. 
"  The  devil  himself  was  in  those  cards  last  night,  and 
it 's  a  deuced  queer  thing  "  — 

"  We  would  not  mind  being  brutes  all  the  time.  It 's 
being  brutes  part  of  the  time  that  hurts,"  cut  in  Dick, 
looking  at  Arthur,  who,  still  seated,  was  facing  the 
brightening  windows  with  unseeing  eyes. 

Suddenly  a  man,  who  had  been  examining  the  loose 
cards,  rose  with  an  oath,  and,  pouring  some  whiskey 
into  a  tumbler,  lifted  it  above  his  head. 

"It  is  day,  and  I  have  to  propose  a  toast,"  he  cried. 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  groaned  Morrison.  "  Have  n't  we 
had  enough  whiskey  for  one  time  ?  " 

"  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  —  and  so  forth,"  quoted 
some  one  thickly,  reaching  for  a  tumbler.  "  Have  n't 
the  quotation  right,  but  you  get  my  idea." 

"  If  you  are  trying  to  say,  '  One  can't  have  enough 
of  a  good  thing,'  say  it,  you  infernal  idiot,  and  shut 
up,"  cried  Morrison,  in  tones  of  strong  disgust.  "  Bah ! 
you  had  better  get  under  the  pump,"  he  added. 

The  man  who  had  proposed  the  toast  still  stood  with 
the  glass  raised  above  his  head. 

"  It  is  day,"  he  repeated,  "  and  I  drink  to  the  dis 
covery  of  the  scoundrel  among  us  who  has  been  play 
ing  with  cards  up  his  sleeve.  Curse  him !  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

FEET   OF    CLAY 

.RTHUR  let  himself  into  the  house  with  a  shaking 
hand.  As  the  gloom  of  the  empty  hall  struck  him,  he 
turned  to  face  the  east  just  as  the  sun,  blazing,  jubi 
lant,  mighty,  came  out  of  the  sea,  flinging  gold  far  on 
the  waters  and  searching  the  land  with  flaming  shafts 
of  light. 

Arthur's  spirit,  shrinking  and  devitalized,  could  not 
meet  the  dominant  splendor  of  the  scene,  so,  turning  to 
the  house  again,  he  entered  and  went  into  the  dimness 
of  it,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  In  his  own  room  he 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  with  his  head  bowed  on  his 
hands,  and  tried  to  think. 

From  time  to  time  he  asked  himself  if  the  thing 
were  true.  Yesterday  he  had  been  the  idol  of  a  uni 
versity.  In  him  had  seemed  embodied  the  qualities  of 
knighthood.  Courage,  gentleness,  honor,  and  perfect 
physical  beauty,  were  the  things  he  had  stood  for 
yesterday,  and  to-day  ?  Less  than  an  hour  ago  a  man, 
excited  by  wine,  maddened  by  serious  loss,  had  pro 
posed  a  toast  to  the  destruction  of  a  scoundrel  who 
had  cheated  him,  and  Arthur  knew  himself  to  be  that 
scoundrel.  The  memory  of  the  word  struck  him  as  a 
physical  blow  under  which  his  frame  shrunk  visibly. 

89 


THE   EVASION 

He  pictured  the  consequences  of  his  act  were  it  dis 
covered,  and  the  picture  scorched  him  like  flame.  He 
thought  of  the  friends  and  the  honors  which  had  been 
his,  and  which  he  must  lose ;  of  the  doors  which  had 
been  opened,  and  which  would  be  closed.  The  clubs 
would  expect  him  to  resign,  his  name  would  be  struck 
off  the  lists  of  the  Harvard  societies  where  he  had 
been  a  hero.  He  thought  of  the  four  splendid  years  at 
college,  and  then  he  thought  of  the  squad,  the  nine 
uncouth  giants  who  had  loved  him,  and  whom  he  had 
led  to  battle  and  victory.  Tears  stood  in  his  miserable 
eyes  as  he  imagined  what  they  would  feel  when  they 
heard  of  his  act.  How  could  he  bear  these  things? 
He  told  himself  that  he  could  not  bear  them.  On 
starting  the  game  he  intended  nothing  save  to  win  the 
money  he  needed ;  but  instead  of  winning,  he  had  lost 
steadily.  He  had  staked  what  he  had,  and  had  lost  it. 
Then  he  had  staked  more  than  he  had,  and  lost  that. 
It  was  not  merely  the  passion  of  a  gambler  that  pos 
sessed  him,  he  told  himself  now,  but  the  desperation  of 
loss.  Then  came  the  temptation,  and  he  had  gone 
down  under  it,  as  do  those  wretches  who  people  prisons 
and  penitentiaries. 

"  I  had  to  have  that  money  —  I  had  to  have  it !  "  he 
groaned,  seeking  some  justification  for  his  act. 

Well,  he  had  the  money,  and  as  yet  no  one  knew 
how  he  had  come  by  it.  He  had  the  money,  and  though 
it  was  not  sufficient  to  clear  him  of  debt,  it  would  tem 
porarily  free  him  from  creditors  who  had  been  his  tor 
ment.  It  would  give  him  time  to  lift  his  head  above 

90 


FEET   OF  CLAY 

the  waters,  and  take  measures  to  keep  it  there.  "  A 
fellow  must  have  time  to  breathe,"  he  told  himself, 
and,  lifting  his  head  from  his  hands,  he  did  breathe 
with  cpnsiderable  relief.  The  anxiety  which  had  not 
left  him  for  months  was  gone.  He  was  free,  he  assured 
himself,  trying  thereby  to  smother  the  memory  of  the 
thing  he  had  done.  But  the  memory  could  not  be 
smothered  just  yet,  particularly  with  the  fear  of  dis 
covery  hounding  it  into  life. 

The  man  who  had  lost  most  heavily,  and  proposed  the 
toast,  was  the  president  of  the  club ;  and  it  was  said 
by  those  who  knew  him  that  he  possessed  an  unpleas 
antly  rough  side.  Arthur  felt  sure  that  he  would  not 
allow  the  episode  to  pass  without  investigation. 

Gradually  a  distant  opening  and  shutting  of  doors, 
steps  in  the  parlors  beneath  him,  and  a  sweeping  of 
staircases  forced  itself  upon  his  consciousness.  The 
hour  had  come  when  he  must  begin  the  day.  A  shower 
bath  and  a  shave  restored  him  to  some  measure  of 
confidence  and  self-respect,  and  there  was  no  one  to 
face  at  his  early  breakfast.  But  in  spite  of  physical 
well-being,  the  memory  of  what  he  had  done  grew 
more  and  more  insistent. 

After  having  tried  in  vain  to  forget  it  in  a  few  words 
with  Gladys,  who  came  downstairs  just  as  he  left  the 
dining-room,  he  began  to  hate  and  dread  it  as  some 
evil  gift  of  fate  for  which  he  was  in  no  sense  respon 
sible. 

Sitting  in  the  sunny  morning  room,  watching  his 
cousin  pour  out  her  coffee,  and  passing  her  the  things 

91 


THE   EVASION 

she  needed  with  a  deference  that  was  not  less  charm 
ing  for  being  more  quiet  than  usual,  his  face  wore  a 
becoming  pallor,  and  by  some  strange  alchemy  seemed 
incapable  of  registering  an  unworthy  thought  or  emo 
tion.  He  was  ashamed  and  badly  frightened,  but  he 
appeared  wistful,  and  dangerously  appealing.  Look 
ing  at  him,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  believe  him  one 
who  had  yielded  to  sordid  temptation.  He  seemed 
rather  as  some  heroic  and  chivalric  being  caught  de 
fenseless  by  a  malignant  fate. 

His  uncle  had  passed  what  remained  of  the  night  at 
the  club,  and  on  his  return  he  summoned  Arthur  to 
the  "  Beetlery,"  that  being  the  one  spot  where  he  was 
secure  from  interruption. 

"  This  is  a  bad  business,"  he  began,  seating  himself, 
and  looking  older  and  heavier  than  usual. 

The  proximity  of  these  coleopteran  specimens  in  glass 
cases  was  apt  to  get  on  Arthur's  nerves,  and  this  morn 
ing  the  place  seemed  one  of  torture. 

"  A  bad  business,"  repeated  his  uncle  slowly. 

"  You  wish  to  speak  to  me  about  it?"  Arthur  man 
aged  to  say  respectfully. 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  talking  with  the  president  —  sit 
down,  my  boy." 

Arthur  obeyed  him. 

"  I  have  been  talking  with  the  president,  who  insists 
upon  an  investigation  of  some  kind." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  The  investigation  will  be  strictly  private,  of  course," 
he  added. 

92 


FEET   OF  CLAY 

"  Of  course,"  repeated  Arthur  mechanically.  He  no 
ticed  that  Mr.  Stanwood  avoided  meeting  his  eyes,  and 
fear  ran  through  his  veins  like  a  consuming  acid. 

Mr.  Stanwood  took  a  valuable  microscope  from  the 
table  beside  him,  and  toyed  with  it  recklessly. 

"  The  unfortunate  part  of  it  is,"  he  continued,  "  that 
the  only  two  men  who  won  anything  out  of  the  game 
are  my  nephew  and  the  man  who  has  been  my  guest 
all  summer." 

"  Do  you  suspect  me,  sir  ?  "  asked  Arthur  faintly. 

"  God  forbid,  my  boy,  God  forbid !  " 

Arthur  recognized  the  exclamation  as  one  of  sorrow 
rather  than  of  trust ;  and  as  he  sat  there  he  felt  his 
manhood  leaving  him  drop  by  drop,  for  he  knew  that 
his  world  would  more  easily  forgive  the  man  who  steals 
his  friend's  wife  than  his  friend's  money. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  think  you  ever  wanted  money 
without  turning  to  me,"  continued  his  uncle,  with  appar 
ent  irrelevance.  He  spoke  still  with  averted  eyes,  and 
recklessly  fingered  his  most  cherished  possession.  "  Are 
you  in  need  of  money  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  answered  Arthur  truthfully.  "  You  are  very 
kind,"  he  murmured. 

Beads  of  perspiration  began  to  roll  down  his  face, 
and  the  room,  with  its  thousands  and  thousands  of 
hideous  insects,  seemed  a  chamber  of  horrors.  If  he 
could  ever  get  out  of  it,  and  away  from  his  uncle's 
shamefaced,  averted  gaze,  he  thought  that  his  guilt 
would  weigh  less  upon  him,  and  that  he  could  find 
some  way  of  shuffling  off  its  consequences. 

93 


THE   EVASION 

"  Is  there  anything  else  you  wish  to  say  to  me  about 
it?  "he  asked. 

"  Yes,  one  more  thing.  It  is  remembered  that  during 
the  night,  at  the  time  Copeland  was  winning  so  heavily, 
you  made  a  remark  to  him  about  having  learned  the 
card  tricks  well.  Can  you  explain  that  remark  ?  " 

"  I  believe  he  once  saw  a  fellow  show  up  some  gam 
bling  tricks,"  answered  Arthur  evasively.  He  thought 
he  began  to  see  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 

"Was  it  yesterday  —  when  you  were  with  him  — 
that  he  saw  those  tricks  ?  There  was,  I  believe,  a  jug 
gler  in  the  village  during  the  afternoon." 

So  it  was  known  that  they  had  been  together,  but  not 
certain  that  they  had  witnessed  the  exposition  of  trick 
ery.  Arthur  was  thinking  hard  now,  and  the  way  out 
was  widening. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  —  fairer  to 
Copeland  and  me  —  if  I  answered  no  questions  about 
him  behind  his  back  ?  "  he  suggested.  "  He  will,  I  take 
it,  be  present  at  the  investigation."  But  as  he  spoke 
Arthur  knew  that  Dick  must  be  prevented  from  ap 
pearing. 

Mr.  Stanwood  met  his  nephew's  eyes  for  the  first 
time,  and  drew  a  heavy  breath  of  relief. 

"  You  are  right,  Arthur,  you  are  right,"  he  said 
heartily.  "  I  think  that  will  be  all  for  the  moment." 

And  Arthur  made  his  escape  with  all  possible  expe 
dition.  His  brain  was'clearing,  and  he  felt  a  man  again, 
with  events'under  his  hand.  Sitting  on  the  rocks,  he 
tried  to  think  it  out.  It  was  known  that  he  and  Cope- 

94 


FEET  OF  CLAY 

land  were  together  in  the  afternoon.  The  coachman 
had  probably  told  of  it ;  but  it  was  not  known  that  they 
had  witnessed  the  exhibition  of  trickery,  and  Copeland 
must  be  prevented  from  testifying  to  this  fact.  But 
how  was  he  to  be  prevented  ? 

It  would  be  useless  to  suggest  that  such  an  admission 
would  tend  to  incriminate  himself.  When  questioned 
he  would  undoubtedly  tell  exactly  what  he  had  done, 
even  though  it  might  involve  another  man,  and  that 
the  man  he  himself  suspected  of  guilt.  That  Copeland 
did  suspect  him,  Arthur  knew  well,  and  his  face  burned 
now  at  the  memory  of  the  look  Dick  had  given  him 
just  as  the  game  broke  up.  The  perspiration  started 
out  on  his  forehead  at  the  thought  of  it,  and  by  this 
time  he  had  ceased  to  feel  shame.  There  was  no  room 
in  his  consciousness  for  anything  but  the  instinct  of  an 
animal  at  bay.  Escape  from  the  consequences  of  his 
act  was  a  desperate  need,  and  in  his  panic  he  did  not 
stop  to  question  the  cost  of  escape.  Dick  must  be  pre 
vented  from  testifying,  that  was  the  first  thing  to  be 
accomplished;  and  after  several  hours  of  agonized 
searching  he  rose  suddenly,  looked  at  his  watch,  and 
went  swiftly  down  to  the  club. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ARTHUR   DISQUALIFIED 

'N  the  excited  and  ominous  ending  to  the  night's 
game,  Dick  had  gone  straight  to  his  room,  and  after  a 
few  hours  of  heavy  slumber  he  awoke  feeling  consider 
ably  ashamed  of  himself.  It  seemed  as  though  demons 
had  taken  possession  of  him  the  night  before,  and  it  is 
the  pride  of  self-controlled  manhood  to  subjugate  de 
mons.  Disgust  and  shame  were  with  him  all  the  morn 
ing,  and  considerable  anxiety  as  to  the  outcome  of 
Arthur's  tampering  with  the  cards.  He  liked  the  boy,  as 
did  nearly  every  one  who  came  in  contact  with  him,  nor 
did  he  bear  any  serious  ill  will  for  the  insulting  words 
with  which  Arthur  had  addressed  him  at  midnight,  for 
he  knew  that  the  remark  had  been  wrung  from  him  in 
a  moment  of  dreadful  stress,  and  had  no  foundation 
in  belief.  But  he  despised  Arthur,  with  the  scorn  that 
came  to  him  so  easily.  He  told  himself  that  the  fellow 
who  could  do  a  thing  like  that  was  rotten  to  the  core. 

Before  luncheon  he  went  to  the  beach  for  a  swim,  and 
when  he  came  out  from  the  bathing-house,  Arthur  con 
fronted  him  with  a  pale  and  desperate  face. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said  humbly. 

Dick  did  not  answer  as  he  turned  to  lock  the  bath 
ing-house. 

96 


ARTHUR  DISQUALIFIED 

"I  want  to  apologize  for  saying  what  I  did  last 
night,"  continued  Arthur,  "  I  did  not  mean  a  word  of 
it." 

"  I  never  thought  you  did,"  answered  Dick  shortly. 
"  Don't  say  anything  more  about  it." 

Arthur  had  suspected  Dick's  knowledge  of  his  guilt. 
Now  he  was  sure  of  it. 

"  Would  you  mind  coming  out  on  the  rocks  where 
we  need  not  be  interrupted?"  he  continued.  "  I  have 
something  to  say." 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  with  Arthur  to  the 
rocks,  and  Dick  went,  with  all  imaginable  reluctance. 
Arthur  did  not  speak  at  once,  but  sat  doubled  over 
with  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  I  did  it !  "  he  said  suddenly,  without  lifting  his 
head. 

There  did  not  seem  any  appropriate  answer  to  the 
confession,  and  Dick  made  none. 

"  I  did  it,"  repeated  Arthur.  "  I  cheated  at  cards. 
I  did  the  lowest  down,  meanest  thing  a  man  can  do, 
and  I  feel  as  if  I  should  go  off  the  hooks  if  I  did  n't 
tell  somebody."  At  this  moment  Arthur  quite  believed 
what  he  said.  "  But  I  had  to  have  the  money !  You 
believe  that  I  had  to  have  the  money  ?  " 

Here  was  a  chance  for  Dick's  scorn  to  find  expres 
sion,  but  he  found  himself  suddenly  and  most  unex 
pectedly  moved  to  pity. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  ask  me  for  it  yesterday  ? "  he  de 
manded. 

"  I  tried  to,  but  you  shied  off." 
97 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  tried  to  offer,  but  you  would  n't  let  me.  —  Makes 
me  feel  as  though  the  infernal  business  were  all  my 
fault,"  thought  Dick  miserably. 

"  God !  how  did  it  happen ! "  continued  Arthur, 
with  his  hands  hanging  limply  between  his  knees. 
"  I  thought  I  was  a  gentleman  —  the  fellows  —  they 
would  n't  have  left  much  of  any  one  who  doubted  me. 
What  will  they  do  when  they  hear  I  am  just  —  a  cad  ? 
I  believed  in  myself  last  night,  and  then  I  did  it  easily 
—  did  the  thing  no  one  will  ever  forget  about  me.  I 
can't  believe  in  myself  again,  no  one  will  believe  in  me. 
They  won't  want  me  at  their  clubs,  and  when  I  try  for 
a  business  — who  will  want  to  take  in  a  fellow  who  is 
known  to  have  cheated  at  cards  ?  '  He  cheated  at  cards ! ' 
I  can  hear  them  say  it  of  me  whenever  I  enter  a  room. 
How  can  I  bear  it?  How  can  a  man  bear  things  like 
that?" 

"  It  won't  be  as  bad  as  that,"  answered  Dick.  "  Is 
any  one  on  to  you  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  but  there  is  going  to  be  a  sort  of  investigation 
this  afternoon." 

"It's  lucky  you  needn't  wait  for  it.  You  will  find 
the  president,  Mr.  Murray,  at  the  club  now  if  you  go 
at  once." 

"  Good  Lord,  man !  Do  you  think  I  am  anxious  to 
hurry  it  ?  " 

"  The  sooner  the  better.  He  is  mad  right  through, 
for  he  promised  to  take  his  wife  to  Newport  next  week, 
and  he  lost  so  much  money  last  night  that  he  can't  do 
it.  But  if  you  give  him  back  what  you  took,  —  I  will 

98 


AETHUK  DISQUALIFIED 

be  your  banker,  —  and  do  the  same  by  the  others  who 
owe  you  anything  "  — 

"  But  that  would  be  confessing  that  I  did  it,"  cried 
Arthur,  lifting  a  startled  face. 

Dick  looked  grave,  and  paused  for  a  moment.  "  It 
is  the  only  decent  thing  to  do,"  he  said  at  last,  and  the 
sympathy  had  gone  out  of  his  voice.  "  It  is  the  only 
decent  thing  to  do,  and  the  only  way  out  of  the  mess." 

"  I  don't  call  it  a  way  out  of  the  mess ;  I  call  it  get 
ting  into  it  with  both  feet." 

"  It  is  no  business  of  mine,"  said  Dick  coldly,  be 
ginning  to  skip  pebbles  into  the  water.  "  But  I  think 
you  will  be  an  awful  fool  if  you  don't  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  If  you  give  back  the  money,  you  will  not 
only  have  restored  their  good  humor,  but  have  taken  a 
big  step  towards  restoring  their  good  opinion  of  you, 
and  there  is  n't  one  who  would  tell.  But  if  you  wait  to 
be  found  out "  — 

"  I  am  hoping  not  to  be  found  out." 

Dick  threw  pebbles  in  silence. 

"  There 's  the  money  I  owe  them,"  said  Arthur,  as  if 
discerning  the  other's  thoughts. 

"  That  is  rather  an  important  item,"  admitted  Dick 
dryly.  "  What  do  you  propose  to  do  about  it  —  if  you 
are  not  found  out  ?  " 

"I  could  deposit  it  to  their  accounts  in  the  bank. 
They  need  n't  know  whom  it  comes  from.  But  I  can't 
confess.  I  can't  do  it,"  he  groaned.  "  Another  fellow 
might.  I  can't.  I  tell  you,  I  am  no  good!  There  is 
something  wrong  about  me !  I  went  down  under  temp- 

99 


THE   EVASION 

tation  this  time,  and  I  '11  do  it  again  some  day,  however 
hard  I  try." 

Dick  ceased  to  throw  pebbles.  "  That 's  rot,"  he  said. 
"  Stop  it." 

Arthur  looked  at  the  sea  with  desperate  eyes. 

"  What  was  that  in  the  '  Rubaiyat,'  "  he  continued, 
"  about  the  pot  that  was  damaged  in  the  making  be 
cause  the  hand  of  the  potter  trembled?  The  hand  of 
the  potter  must  have  trembled  when  he  made  me,  or 
else  I  was  made  of  poor  clay,  and  I  guess  that  is  it  — 
I  guess  I  am  just  poor  clay.  But  that  was  the  potter's 
fault  —  not  mine." 

It  seemed  to  Dick  that  he  was  confronted  by  the 
most  pitiful  of  things.  Here  was  a  man  not  fighting 
for  a  desperate  chance,  or  one  who  could  fight  and 
would  not ;  but  a  man  who  would  fight  and  could  not ; 
one  who  was  morally  unable  to  do  so,  a  vessel  of  poor 
clay,  in  the  making  of  which  the  hand  of  the  potter 
had  trembled.  But  he  made  another  effort. 

"  You  were  all  right  fighting  Yale  on  the  diamond," 
he  said ;  "  you  can  fight  this  if  you  want." 

"  It 's  easy  work  fighting  on  the  diamond,"  answered 
Arthur,  "because  there  are  the  fellows  straining  at 
your  elbow,  and  the  music  and  cheers,  and  flags,  and 
the  girl  on  the  bench.  Besides,  I  have  given  in,  in 
spite  of  those  things,  when  the  game  was  going  too 
much  against  me.  No,  I  can't  confess.  Another  might, 
but  I  can't.  I  tell  you,  I  can't !  "  and  there  was  panic 
in  Arthur's  voice. 

"  But,  man  alive !  don't  you  see  that  it  is  the  only 
100 


ARTHUR   DISQUALIFIED 

way  out?  You  not  only  atone  for  an  act  that  isn't 
square  by  one  that  is,  but  you  choke  the  whole  thing 
off.  Don't  be  such  an  infernal  idiot  as  to  crouch  like 
a  dog  under  a  cane.  Stand  up  and  strike  out  from 
the  shoulder.  Give  it  a  blow  between  the  eyes.  You 
can  do  it.  The  way  is  open,  which  it  is  n't  for  every 
poor  devil  that  has  slipped.  Pull  yourself  up  —  pull 
yourself  up  by  the  roots  if  need  be ;  never  mind  if  it 
hurts.  Pull  yourself  up  and  start  again.  You  can  wipe 
it  out  and  be  nearly  as  good  a  man  as  you  ever  were. 
It  is  only  for  you  to  say  how  it  turns  out." 

Tramping  about  on  the  slippery  rock  in  momen 
tary  danger  of  falling,  he  continued  to  exhort  Arthur 
in  this  vein,  with  increasing  variety  and  confusion  of 
metaphor.  But  the  culprit  sat  huddled  and  shivering 
helplessly  till  at  last  Dick  realized  the  uselessness  of 
his  task  and  sat  down  again  by  his  side. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  when  you  are 
found  out  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  But  I  may  not  be  found  out,"  said  Arthur,  remem 
bering  suddenly  that  the  need  of  sympathy  was  not  the 
object  of  his  confession. 

"It  stands  this  way,"  he  continued.  "They  know 
you  and  I  were  together  yesterday  afternoon.  They 
know  there  was  a  juggler  in  the  village  who  taught 
card  tricks,  but  they  do  not  know  that  we  were  at  the 
show.  We  stood  outside,  and  I  don't  believe  any  one 
turned  round  to  look  at  us.  Now  how  are  they  going 
to  find  out  if  we  don't  tell? " 

"  But  how  are  we  going  to  help  telling  if  they  ask 
101 


THE   EVASION 

us  ?   And  if  you  are  in  such  a  funk  at  the  idea  of  any 
one 's  finding  it  out,  why  did  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  could  n't  help  it,"  murmured  Arthur.  "  I  had  to 
tell  some  one,  and  you  are  one  of  the  kind  who  can 
be  trusted."  He  was  now  thoroughly  conscious  of  the 
part  he  had  intended  to  play  when  he  planned  the  in 
terview,  and  would  have  played  the  part  but  poorly 
had  not  every  tone  of  his  voice  and  every  line  of  his 
body  expressed  his  genuine  distress.  "  You  are  one  of 
the  kind  who  can  be  trusted,"  he  said,  and  rose  heav 
ily.  "  I  am  —  I  am  a  thousand  times  obliged  to  you, 
old  man,  for  listening  and  trying  to  help  me  out." 
And  then  he  stood  crushing  his  old  college  cap  between 
his  hands  and  looking  at  Dick  with  piteous,  entreating 
eyes. 

"I  can't  bear  being  found  out,"  he  whispered 
hoarsely,  and  then  he  turned  away.  "  The  examination 
is  to  be  this  afternoon,"  he  added. 

"  See  here  !  "  Dick  almost  shouted.  "  I  can't  be  pre 
sent  at  your  infernal  examination.  If  I  do,  I  shall  have 
to  answer  questions,  and  since  some  power  of  darkness 
prompted  you  to  tell  me  this  thing,  I  can't  give  it  away. 
I  had  better  not  even  go  back  to  the  club.  I  've  got  to 
hook  it.  I  've  got  to  have  important  business  in  town. 
But  I  have  important  business  here ! "  he  groaned, 
remembering  an  engagement  with  Gladys,  and  using 
vigorous  language  under  his  breath.  "  It  was  one  thing 
to  suspect  him  on  my  own  evidence,  but  now  that  he 
has  confided  in  me,  I  am  tied  hand  and  foot,"  he 
told  himself. 

102 


ARTHUR  DISQUALIFIED 

Arthur  paused,  but  did  not  turn. 

"  You  had  better  not  do  anything  you  don't  want  to 
do  on  my  account ;  I  am  not  worth  it,"  he  said.  Sin 
cerity  and  shame  were  in  his  voice ;  but  there  would 
have  been  little  of  either  had  he  been  less  sure  that  the 
day  was  won. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MOONLIGHT 

'ICK  had  postponed  his  engagement  with  Gladys 
till  the  evening ;  and,  waiting  for  him  on  the  terrace, 
the  magic  of  the  night  fell  upon  her. 

In  the  garden  were  moonlight,  and  mystical  shadows, 
and  the  perfume  of  lilies  drenched  in  dew.  Beyond  the 
garden  great  tides  swung  full  and  rapturous  under  the 
August  moon.  The  still  night  listened.  It  seemed  to 
Gladys  that  the  world  had  been  waiting  like  this  — 
waiting  and  worshiping  —  for  millions  of  years.  The 
lilies  standing  in  rows  were  waiting,  while  they  held 
stately  chalices  pallid  as  starlight  to  the  skies,  and 
these  other  listening  Presences,  motionless,  expectant, 
of  unsubstantial  essence  —  that  would  be  only  trees 
and  shrubs  to-morrow.  She  stretched  out  her  hand 
and  touched  one  of  them  slowly,  wonderingly,  as  a 
child  will  try  the  unknown,  for  she  felt  a  stranger  in 
the  garden  she  knew  so  well.  This  dim,  tenebrous  shape 
with  its  drooping  meshes  of  shadow  —  was  it  the  weep 
ing  beech  under  which  she  had  breakfasted  that  morn 
ing? 

With  every  breath,  she  drew  the  beauty  and  mystery 
of  the  scene  deep  into  her  being,  and  it  became  an  ec 
stasy  and  a  pain.  The  faith  that  is  betrayed  and  lives  ; 

104 


MOONLIGHT 

the  hope  that  is  too  high  for  earth,  and  endures  ;  the 
passion  that  is  in  the  uplift  of  crucified  hearts,  —  of 
these  things  she  could  know  nothing,  but  the  sense  of 
them  was  with  her,  pulsing  upward  through  the  deep 
and  tranquil  night  as  from  the  world's  heart ;  and 
because  of  them  tears  lay  on  her  face. 

Dick  was  coming  through  this  garden  to  meet  her. 
It  was  well,  she  told  herself,  that  he  should  come 
to-night  of  all  nights  that  ever  had  been  or  would 
be.  What  she  should  say  to  him  she  could  not  yet  tell 
herself ;  but  never  doubted  that  when  he  came  she 
would  know. 

All  that  a  girl's  first  lover  can  mean  to  her  of  ro 
mance  and  glamour  Dick  had  meant  for  Gladys.  Un 
der  the  spell  of  his  love,  possibilities  that  were  wonder 
ful,  sacred,  and  holy  had  stirred  within  her  as  sleepers 
stir  at  dawn.  Sometimes  she  paused  to  listen  by  the 
hushed  chamber  wherein  they  dwelt,  and  then  she 
seemed  to  hear  them  speaking  in  whispers  of  poignant 
tenderness  —  tenderness  that  hurt.  Was  Dick  to  lead 
her  within  this  chamber  to-night  ? 

She  waited  for  him  on  a  seat  built  by  the  terrace 
wall,  just  where  a  path  dropped  to  the  road.  By  this 
path  he  should  come,  and  she  placed  herself  in  the 
shadow,  for  she  wanted  to  see  him,  unseen  herself,  as 
he  came  up  out  of  the  darkness. 

There  was  a  step  below,  and  she  leaned  forward,  lis 
tening  eagerly,  but  silence  fell  almost  at  once,  and  she 
was  glad  the  steps  passed  on,  for  her  heart  beat  sud 
denly  to  suffocation.  But  very  soon  she  began  to  listen 

105 


THE   EVASION 

again,  with  elbows  on  the  stone  parapet  and  chin  in 
hands.  Now  and  then  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  with  her 
face  turned  to  the  stars  she  tried  to  imagine  how  he 
would  look  and  speak  when  he  saw  her.  Because  of  the 
great  patience  and  content  of  the  listening  world,  she 
waited  without  impatience  herself,  as  still  waters  must 
have  waited  the  coming  of  the  first  dawn. 

But  moments  went  by,  and  the  night  changed  subtly. 
There  came  a  wind  on  the  sea,  and  under  it  the  rhyth 
mic  swing  of  the  tide  was  broken.  There  were  rustling 
murmurs  through  the  garden  which  had  been  so  still, 
and  withered  leaves  on  a  bush  near  her  began  to  chat 
ter  inquisitively  of  paltry  things.  Suddenly  she  knew 
that  she  had  been  waiting  long. 

He  would  not  come  now.  He  had  failed  her  for  the 
second  time  that  day  ;  and  she  rose  swiftly,  with  tears 
of  bitterness  and  disappointment  in  her  eyes.  The 
magic  of  the  night  was  shattered. 

"  He  need  not  come  at  all,"  she  told  herself.  "  He 
need  never  come  again.  It  is  too  late.  His  hour  has 
gone." 

Then  it  was  that  Mrs.  Stanwood's  voice  called  her. 
"  Gladys,  where  are  you  ?  " 

She  obeyed  the  call,  and  found  her  aunt  standing  in 
a  stream  of  light  that  came  from  the  open  hallway. 

"  Gladys,  where  are  you  ?  " 

"Here,  Aunt  Edith." 

"You  had  better  come  in,"  said  her  aunt.  "Dick 
Copeland  cannot  come  to-night.  He  is  in  the  library 
now." 

106 


MOONLIGHT 

"  In  the  library  now,"  repeated  the  girl,  pausing  at 
the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"  Yes,  with  your  uncle  and  the  president  of  the  club. 
Come  in,  dear,  the  night  has  grown  cold." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

QUIXOTISM 


Gi 


fLADYS,  dazed  and  bewildered  with  the  reaction 
from  her  hour  of  exaltation,  knelt  by  the  fire,  pretend 
ing  to  warm  her  hands,  while  Mrs.  Stan  wood  explained 
the  situation.  Her  serenity  was  ruffled,  and  there  was 
distinct  annoyance  in  her  voice  and  manner. 

"  It  is  all  very  foolish  and  disagreeable,"  she  said. 
"  Why  could  n't  they  leave  things  alone  ?  Men  are 
fools.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  the  case  seems  to  stand 
between  Arthur  and  Dick  Copeland." 

Gladys  laughed  scornfully.  "  How  absurd  to  accuse 
Dick  of  cheating  !  "  she  said.  "  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
think  such  a  thing  for  a  moment." 

"  We  have  to  think  a  good  many  things  as  we 
grow  older,"  answered  her  aunt  dryly,  "  and  we  might 
as  well  learn  in  the  beginning  not  to  be  ashamed  of 
them." 

She  walked  to  and  fro  on  the  polished  floor,  pausing 
now  and  then  to  listen  to  the  voices  that  came  from  the 
library. 

"  I  should  suspect  Arthur  of  cheating  far  sooner  than 
Dick,  though  Arthur  is  my  cousin,"  said  Gladys. 

"  So  should  I,"  answered  her  aunt  frankly.  "  For 
one  of  your  years  you  have  an  unusual  gift  of  seeing 

108 


QUIXOTISM 

through  the  glamour  of  people.  Je  vous  cnfelicite,  mon 
enfant.  But  in  this  case  it  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
Arthur." 

"  Why  should  it  have  been  either  of  them  —  there 
were  other  men  playing  ?  " 

"  But  they  were  the  only  two  who  won  anything. 
The  first  part  of  the  night  Copeland  won  phenomenally, 
and  at  midnight  Arthur  turned  to  him  before  them  all, 
and  remarked  that  he  had  learned  his  card  tricks 
well." 

"  How  did  Dick  answer  the  insult  ?  " 

"  He  told  Arthur  not  to  make  an  idiot  of  himself  ; 
but  he  won  no  more  that  night,  except  spasmodically. 
All  the  winnings  were  for  Arthur  till  the  game  broke 
up  at  dawn.  Some  of  the  men  had  thought  things 
looked  strangely,  and  then  they  found  the  cards  had 
been  tampered  with,  and  some  one  remembered  Arthur's 
remark  to  Dick,  and  the  fact  that  Dick's  winnings 
ceased  from  that  moment." 

"  The  idea  being,  I  suppose,  that  Dick  was  afraid  to 
go  on,"  said  Gladys  quietly,  still  warming  her  hands. 

"  Obviously." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Gladys,  still  speaking  with 
quiet  scorn. 

"  No.  There  was  to  have  been  an  examination  this 
afternoon,  and  one  man  avoided  it." 

"  Ah !  "  breathed  the  girl. 

"  The  man  was  Dick,"  said  her  aunt. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  It  is  true  that  he  broke  his  appointment  with  me 
109 


THE   EVASION 

this  afternoon,"  she  said  at  last.   "  But  there  might  have 
been  many  reasons  for  that." 

"  Did  he  give  you  one  ?  " 

There  was  another  and  a  longer  pause  before  Gladys 
answered.  "  He  wrote  '  unavoidable  circumstance,'  " 
she  said. 

"  Ah !  "  breathed  Mrs.  Stanwood,  in  her  turn. 

"  He  did  not  know  there  was  to  be  an  examination," 
said  Gladys. 

"  That  is  one  of  the  things  they  are  trying  to  find  out 
in  the  library." 

"A  man  who  does  not  believe  in  God."  The  words 
repeated  themselves  mechanically  within  her.  Her  aunt 
paused  by  the  girl's  side,  and  watched  her  face  in  the 
firelight. 

"  You  did  not  love  him,  Gladys  ?  " 

"No,"  she  answered  aloud,  adding  to  herself,  "I 
should  have  loved  him  had  he  come  to  me  in  the  garden 
to-night." 

"  I  thought  not ;  but  in  any  case  it  seemed  better  to 
risk  telling  you  everything." 

"  Much  better." 

"  You  are  fortunate,  my  child,  in  that  you  have  the 
power  to  see  things  clearly." 

Gladys  was  silent. 

"  And  that  you  will  not  take  this  man  or  any  other 
in  blind  trust." 

"  If  I  had  more  trust,  I  might  see  more  clearly,"  said 
the  girl,  though  she  could  have  given  no  reason  for  so 
speaking. 

110 


QUIXOTISM 

Mrs.  Stanwood  resumed  her  walk.  "He  may  or 
may  not  have  had  important  business  this  afternoon," 
she  continued,  "  but  he  was  evidently  anxious  to  avoid 
being  seen  to-night,  for  he  did  not  stop  at  the  club  on 
his  way  here,  but  sent  a  man  to  get  his  things  and  leave 
them  at  the  station." 

Gladys  remembered  Dick's  writing  that  he  would 
come  to  her  in  the  garden  because  meeting  people  first 
in  the  house  was  a  nuisance.  She  had  fallen  from  her 
high  places,  fallen  among  garish  things,  to  meet  this 
intolerable,  incredible  suspicion.  That  it  was  neither 
tolerable  nor  credible  she  knew,  and  fought  it  as  one 
fights  the  flapping  wings  of  a  bat.  But  in  her,  as  in 
many  highly  conscious,  complex  natures,  there  was  a 
cool,  questioning  spirit,  which  was  an  alien  to  emotional 
extravagance  or  unreasoning,  whole-hearted  trust,  and 
Dick  had  hurt  her  bitterly  that  night.  Because  of  him 
she  had  seemed  ridiculous  in  her  own  eyes.  So,  though 
she  was  tortured  and  ashamed,  she  knelt  on  by  the  fire 
which  had  ceased  to  warm,  and  weighed  the  evidence. 

In  the  library  Dick  had  immediately  and  most  un 
wisely  lost  his  temper.  Impatient  as  only  a  lover  can 
be  at  being  stopped  on  his  way  to  the  woman  he  loves, 
conscious  that  he  must  not  betray  Arthur,  and  tried  to 
the  limit  of  his  endurance  by  the  thought  of  Gladys 
waiting  in  the  garden,  he  answered  the  first  questions 
with  indignant  evasions. 

"  I  deny  the  right  of  any  unofficial  person  to  ques 
tion  me  on  any  subject  whatever,"  he  said.  "  Moreover, 
I  have  an  appointment  which  I  intend  to  keep." 

Ill 


THE   EVASION 

"  You  have  a  great  many  appointments,  Mr.  Cope- 
land,"  said  the  president.  "There  was  one  this  after 
noon  which  prompted  you  to  evade  the  investigation 
of  this  affair.  We  shall  be  glad  of  your  assurance  that 
you  did  not  receive  my  summons."  Then,  turning  to 
Arthur,  who  sat  in  the  shadow  with  a  bowed  head,  "  I 
believe  you  told  me,  Davenport,  that,  so  far  as  you  were 
aware,  Mr.  Copeland  did  not  know  of  the  proposed 
investigation." 

There  was  a  pause,  while  Dick  realized  the  possible 
cost  of  possessing  Arthur's  secret. 

"  I  am  sure  that  Copeland  did  not  know  of  the  in 
vestigation,"  said  Arthur,  and  Dick  felt  as  though  a 
frightened  cur  had  licked  his  boot. 

"  You  confirm  Mr.  Davenport's  statement  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Murray. 

There  was  a  sneer  in  his  voice,  and  under  the  impli 
cation  of  that  sneer  anger  and  contempt  entered  into 
Dick,  and  took  possession. 

"You  confirm  Mr.  Davenport's  statement?" 

"The  statement  is  untrue,"  he  answered. 

"  You  knew  of  the  investigation  ?  " 

"I  did." 

"  Before  leaving  for  the  city  ?  " 

"Yes." 

The  line  of  Dick's  sensitive  lips  hardened,  and  from 
time  to  time  he  looked  at  Arthur  with  growing  wonder 
in  his  eyes. 

"  Were  you  and  Mr.  Davenport  present  yesterday 
when  a  juggler  exposed  some  card  tricks?" 

112 


QUIXOTISM 

"  I  refuse  to  answer  any  questions  connected  with 
Davenport." 

"  Were  you  present  yourself  ?  " 

"I  was." 

When  accused  of  dishonor,  Dick's  ancestors  had  not 
deigned  to  give  other  reply  than  the  flinging  of  the 
glove  of  challenge,  and  it  was  in  the  same  spirit  that 
Dick  flung  his  damaging  answers  at  the  president.  He 
had  never  been  so  angry  in  his  life. 

Mr.  Murray,  who  was  almost  startled  by  such  direct 
success,  tried  to  exchange  a  glance  with  Mr.  Stanwood, 
but  that  gentleman  was  looking  at  Dick  with  surprise 
and  incredulity. 

Mr.  Murray  turned  to  Dick  with  the  look  one  man 
may  not  endure  from  another,  and  ugly,  savage  things 
leaped  to  Dick's  eyes  in  answer. 

"  You  have  made  several  damaging  statements,"  said 
Mr.  Murray.  "  I  suppose  you  are  aware  of  their  import 
in  connection  with  last  night's  game." 

At  this  point  Mr.  Stanwood  interrupted  for  the  first 
time. 

"  When  I  allowed  you  to  question  Mr.  Copeland  in 
my  house,  I  stipulated  that  there  should  be  nothing 
but  questions,  and  no  accusations  of  an  insulting 
nature." 

"My  enforced  presence  here  is  an  insult,"  said 
Dick. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  continued  Mr.  Stanwood,  "  but 
that  my  friend  can  give  a  satisfactory  explanation  of 
his  absence  this  afternoon." 

113 


THE   EVASION 

"We  shall  be  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  Murray, 
tapping  the  table  with  his  fingers. 

"  I  decline  to  give  any  explanation,"  answered  Dick. 

The  president  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"You  have  evaded  certain  things,  and  admitted 
others,"  he  said.  "The  inference" — he  controlled 
himself  with  difficulty  — "  out  of  deference  to  our 
host's  wishes  I  will  only  ask  you  if  you  have  anything 
to  say  for  yourself  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Dick. 

Arthur  in  his  corner  moved  like  one  on  the  rack. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  'em  you  did  n't  do  it  ? "  he 
said,  in  a  strained  voice. 

Dick  looked  at  him  with  amazed  contempt.  He 
began  to  suspect  that  Arthur  would  let  him  bear  the 
blame  rather  than  confess  his  guilt. 

"Davenport  is  right,"  commented  Mr.  Murray. 
"We  are  waiting  to  have  you  declare  your  inno 
cence.'* 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  should  deign  to  declare  any 
thing  of  the  sort  to  you  ?  "  asked  Dick.  And  then  for 
one  instant  he  met  Arthur's  eyes  with  their  burden  of 
shame,  panic,  and  entreaty.  If  the  boy  had  clung  to 
his  knees,  confessing  his  inability  to  act  the  part  of  a 
man,  while  imploring  him  to  withhold  the  contempt 
which  scorched  like  a  blow,  his  degradation  and  help 
lessness  could  not  have  seemed  more  complete.  Dick 
paused,  with  his  hand  on  the  door,  and  for  one  moment 
the  voices  of  his  anger  and  outraged  pride  ceased  their 
clamor. 

114 


QUIXOTISM 

"  It  is  not  too  late,"  his  eyes  said  to  Arthur.  "  Come, 
out  with  it  now,  and  I  will  stand  by,"  but  Arthur 
shook  his  head;  his  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came 
forth,  and  the  moment  passed.  Incredulous  contempt 
came  into  Dick's  face,  and  he  opened  the  library 
door. 

In  his  anger  he  had  forgotten  that  Gladys  was  wait 
ing,  but  coming  upon  her  suddenly,  while  she  knelt  in 
the  rosy  firelight  looking  more  than  ever  a  miracle  of 
flame,  spirit,  and  bewildering  sweetness,  words  crowded 
eagerly  to  his  lips.  He  would  have  told  her  of  the  sus 
picion  he  was  under,  and  expected  her  to  sympathize 
and  laugh  at  it  with  him,  believing  in  her  faith  as  in 
his  own.  But  something  in  her  face  stopped  him,  and 
then  Dick's  heaven  was  riven  as  by  a  thunderbolt,  for 
he  saw  that  the  girl  doubted  him. 

Immediately  after  Dick  came  the  president,  followed 
by  Mr.  Stanwood  and  his  nephew.  While  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood  and  Gladys  greeted  their  guest  as  though  nothing 
had  happened,  Arthur  touched  Dick's  arm. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Copeland !  why  don't  you  tell  'em 
you  did  n't  do  it  ?  "  he  whispered  harshly.  "  I  've  tried, 
but  I  can't.  I  tell  you,  I  can't." 

But  Dick  seemed  not  to  hear.  It  was  all  over,  then ! 
She  believed  he  could  do  this  ugly,  sordid  thing.  It 
was  all  over,  for  Dick  knew  that  he  would  never  ex 
plain,  would  never  sue  for  her  confidence,  or  say  to  her, 
"  I  am  not  a  thief." 

He  turned  blindly  to  find  his  hat,  and  at  the  door 
Mr.  Murray  faced  him. 

115 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  shall  have  to  ask  for  your  resignation,"  he  said, 
in  an  undertone. 

"  My  resignation,"  repeated  Dick  vaguely.  He  stood 
still  and  massive,  with  a  face  denuded  of  all  expression  ; 
but  his  eyes  had  the  look  of  a  dumb  creature  that  is 
maimed  and  stricken. 

"  I  think  you  can  hardly  fail  to  understand.  Your 
resignation  to  the  club." 

"  Ah,  my  resignation  to  the  club  —  yes.  You  shall 
have  it,  of  course." 

The  words  fell  with  weary  carelessness ;  and  then 
he  saw  Gladys,  who  had  come  up  in  time  to  hear 
the  conversation.  She  was  oblivious  of  the  presence  of 
a  stranger,  and  she  was  trembling,  but  Dick  did  not 
know  this. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  in  a  strained  whisper,  "  tell 
me  why  it  was  that  you  did  not  come  to  me  this  after 
noon?" 

Dick  looked  at  her  with  an  expressionless  face,  and 
then  he  answered,  from  the  depths  of  his  pride  and  his 
mortal  hurt. 

"  I  did  not  come  because  I  wished  to  avoid  the  in 
vestigation,"  he  said,  and  left  her. 

Out  on  the  moonlit  sands  he  strove  for  the  second 
time  with  the  powers  that  destroy,  and  for  the  second 
time  the  powers  had  their  way  with  him,  so  that  he  lay 
on  the  ground  and  rolled  over  on  his  face,  as  he  had 
done  on  that  long-distant  day  of  his  childhood. 

This  time  he  did  not  pray. 


116 


QUIXOTISM 

The  sea  wind  was  rising ;  it  came  into  the  hall  where 
Gladys  was  standing  as  Dick  had  left  her,  and  she 
shivered  as  it  struck  her. 

Mr.  Murray  was  taking  his  leave. 

"  We  have  settled  it  more  easily  than  I  expected," 
he  said. 

Gladys  shivered  again. 

"  I  think  some  one  just  walked  over  my  grave,"  she 
said,  in  answer  to  her  aunt's  inquiry. 

"  It  has  been  a  shameful  scene,"  said  Mrs.  Stanwood. 
"No  wonder  that  we  are  all  upset.  Shut  the  door, 
Arthur.  The  weather  has  changed." 


PART   II 


CHAPTER  I 


A    RETURN 

three  years  Mrs.  Stanwood  and  her  niece  re 
mained  in  Europe,  while  Mr.  Stanwood  divided  his  time 
between  the  house  in  Beacon  Street  with  its  shrouded 
furniture,  and  different  parts  of  his  own  country,  from 
which  he  returned  with  important  additions  to  the 
beetle  collection. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  six  months,  Mrs.  Stanwood 
had  written  a  sufficiently  definite  explanation  of  her 
continued  absence. 

"  The  treachery  of  her  friend  made  such  a  painful 
impression  upon  Gladys,"  she  wrote,  "  that  she  dislikes 
the  idea  of  returning  to  Boston,  where  she  would  be 
liable  to  meet  him  at  any  time.  In  the  meanwhile,  she 
is  quite  happy  here,  where  the  social  atmosphere  is 
more  congenial  to  both  of  us  than  it  could  be  at  home. 
You  had  better  not  come  over,  Willie,  you  would  be 
wretched,  as  you  have  always  been  in  Europe,  and  now 
that  we  have  transported  all  our  property  to  America, 
some  one  ought  to  stay  and  look  after  it." 

So  Mr.  Stanwood  stayed,  but,  during  those  two  years, 
neither  his  property  nor  his  beetle  collection  was  the 
principal  object  of  his  thought.  He  had  been  born 
with  certain  convictions,  and  during  the  fifty-odd  years 

121 


THE   EVASION 

of  his  life  he  had  slowly  and  painfully  acquired  a  few 
more.  But,  if  he  was  slow  to  arrive  at  an  idea,  few 
things  short  of  disintegration  could  have  dislodged  it 
when  once  imbedded  in  his  brain ;  and  the  idea  over 
which  Mr.  Stanwood  worked,  during  the  absence  of  his 
wife,  was  the  problem  of  Dick  Copeland's  "  treachery." 
He  thought  of  it  deliberately  and  painfully  for  one 
year,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he  arrived  at  his  un 
alterable  conclusion,  which  was  that  the  man  who  had 
taken  the  blame  was  not  the  man  who  had  cheated. 
Before  the  first  half  of  the  second  year,  he  arrived  at 
his  second  conclusion,  which  was  that  Arthur  Daven 
port  had  been  the  actual  culprit ;  and  the  discovery 
gave  him  so  much  bitterness  and  shame  that  when  the 
time  arrived  for  his  wife's  return  he  had  not  decided 
whether  or  not  to  tell  his  niece  the  truth. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  tried  to  find  Copeland,  with 
a  dim  idea  that  he  would  like  to  shake  hands  with 
him ;  but  since  the  night  of  the  disastrous  game,  there 
was  scarcely  a  trace  of  the  boy.  He  had  not  returned 
to  finish  his  last  year's  course  at  Harvard,  and  there 
were  rumors  to  the  effect  that  he  had  gone  West,  and 
was  working  in  a  Colorado  mine.  Later  on  his  name 
was  mentioned  in  connection  with  a  serious  strike  in 
the  gold  regions,  and  it  was  suspected  that  he  had  been 
partly  responsible  for  violence  and  loss  of  property. 

Over  these  rumors  Mr.  Stanwood  shook  his  head, 
but  they  did  not  alter  his  conviction.  Arthur  he  never 
saw,  or  wished  to  see,  and  the  memory  that  the  boy 
was  his  sister's  only  child  became  a  bitterness  of  which 

122 


A  RETURN 

only  death  could  relieve  him.  Arthur,  on  his  part,  had 
no  wish  to  seek  his  uncle.  He  had  seen  him  only  a 
few  times  since  the  night  of  the  game,  and  on  each  of 
these  occasions  Mr.  Stanwood  had  contrived  to  make 
him  exceedingly  uncomfortable.  The  mere  presence  of 
his  uncle  was  a  reminder  of  the  event  which  the  hap 
piness  of  Arthur's  life  required  him  to  forget,  and  he 
strove  to  forget  it,  with  all  the  ardor  of  which  he  was 
capable. 

During  the  first  few  days  the  thing  had  been  a  night 
mare  to  him.  What  he  had  done  was  bad  enough,  he 
told  himself,  and  allowing  another  man  to  assume  the 
fclame  of  it  was  worse.  For  a  time  he  almost  longed 
to  hear  that  Dick  had  told  the  truth,  and  relieved  him 
from  his  shameful  burden  of  gratitude.  But  very  soon 
he  began  to  fear  that  Dick  would  tell,  and  to  suffer 
the  consequences  of  his  act  seemed  the  one  intolerable 
alternative.  Remorse,  shame,  and  fear  had  their  way 
with  Arthur  during  these  days,  and  they  fought  him 
and  one  another  till  his  consciousness  became  a  place 
of  tumult  and  misery. 

But  time  went  on  and  no  word  came  from  Dick; 
moreover,  Arthur's  world  continued  to  smile  on  him, 
and  the  smile  of  the  world  is  the  best  of  salves  for  a 
bruised  conscience.  He  had  one  of  the  temperaments 
which  ignore  unpleasant  memory.  Shame,  remorse,  or 
sorrow  could  not  dwell  long  with  him,  nor  yet  the 
sense  of  evil  doing.  With  easy  impulses  toward  good 
and  bad,  he  much  preferred  the  good,  and  ignored  or 
forgot  his  wrong  and  unworthy  actions  as  speedily  as 

123 


THE   EVASION 

possible.  He  liked  the  people  about  him  to  be  as  happy 
as  himself,  and  in  the  gracious  acts  of  daily  life  was 
charmingly  courteous  and  generous. 

Months  passed,  and  still  no  betrayal  came  from 
Dick.  Increased  security  brought  lessened  remorse, 
and  gradually  Arthur  warmed  into  his  genial,  expan 
sive  self,  and  was  almost  persuaded  that  no  great 
wrong  had  been  done.  Dick  could  not  have  cared  for 
the  girl,  or  he  would  have  explained  the  situation  to 
her  at  once ;  and  though  it  was  true  that  ugly  rumors 
were  spreading  in  connection  with  his  disappearance, 
the  opinion  of  fashionable  people  in  an  Eastern  city 
could  matter  little  to  a  man  who  had  elected  to  live  in 
another  part  of  the  world  and  stir  up  labor  unions. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  fortune  opened  her  hands  wide 
to  Arthur.  An  unmarried  woman  much  older  than 
himself  loved  him  for  two  years,  after  which  she  died, 
leaving  him  her  large  property  with  no  heirs  to  dispute 
it.  The  occurrence  was  much  discussed,  but  it  was 
generally  admitted  that  Arthur's  behavior  in  connec 
tion  with  it  had  been  perfect.  He  spent  a  week  in 
the  Maine  woods  hunting  up  a  distant  connection  of 
his  benefactress,  and  made  him  independent  for  life. 
He  had  also  given  generous  sums  to  various  charities, 
and  then,  quite  secretly,  through  a  third  person,  he  de 
posited  certain  sums  of  money  to  the  credit  of  the  men 
he  had  defrauded  on  the  night  of  the  game. 

After  this  transaction  Arthur  saw  the  page  of  his 
life  fair  and  spotless  before  him,  and  almost  forgot 
that  it  had  been  anything  else.  Outwardly  he  wore  his 

124 


A   RETURN 

honors  with  becoming  soberness,  and  spent  his  money 
as  lavishly  upon  his  friends  as  upon  himself. 

But  underneath  his  happiness  was  a  deposit  of  bit 
terness.  In  the  depths  of  his  consciousness  he  knew 
that  he  was  worthless,  and  with  this  knowledge  grew 
an  unsuspected  cynicism.  He  had  gone  down  once, 
and  he  knew  that  he  would  go  down  again  under  suf 
ficient  pressure ;  but  when  the  end  came,  what  differ 
ence  could  it  all  make?  Eternal  punishment  was  a 
fetich  of  the  past,  and  it  was  probable  that  on  the  last 
day  the  good  would  lie  down  with  the  evil.  If  he  was 
made  of  poor  clay  on  whom  was  the  blame  ? 

So  did  Arthur  reason  in  the  secret  chambers  of  his 
mind,  for  in  very  truth  the  rust  was  in  his  gold,  and 
the  moth  in  his  garment. 

The  only  outward  result  of  his  experience  was  an 
eagerness  for  praise,  and  an  almost  feverish  satisfac 
tion  in  such  tribute  as  he  won  by  good  behavior,  for 
apart  from  a  residue  of  cynical  bitterness  was  his  win 
ning  and  affectionate  self,  which  yearned  to  stand  justi 
fied  and  virtuous  in  the  eyes  of  his  friends. 

He  could  have  married  often  in  the  course  of  the 
next  few  months,  but  held  his  hand  and  his  heart  till 
such  time  as  he  was  to  see  his  cousin  Gladys  again. 
The  girl  had  held  a  somewhat  thorny  charm  for  him, 
but  the  memory  of  her  would  not  altogether  subside, 
and  he  waited  the  hour  for  her  return  with  a  half- 
formed  intention  of  falling  in  love  with  her  and  win 
ning  her  for  his  wife. 

He  heard  from  friends  that  Mrs.  Stan  wood  had  re- 
125 


THE   EVASION 

opened  her  salon  in  Rome,  where  Gladys  had  a  social 
success  which  gratified  her  aunt's  most  severe  exac 
tions.  One  spring  she  was  presented  at  the  London 
drawing-room,  and  at  last  in  the  following  autumn, 
about  the  middle  of  November,  Mrs.  Stanwood  brought 
her  home. 

Mr.  Stanwood  was  forbidden  to  meet  his  wife  and 
niece  on  the  steamer's  arrival. 

"  He  will  only  be  in  the  way,"  was  her  explanation, 
"  and  sit  about  on  the  boxes,  looking  helpless." 

So  he  waited  for  them  in  the  Beacon  Street  house, 
which  had  been  hastily  denuded  of  its  white  shrouds, 
and  put  in  order  by  a  competent  housekeeper.  With 
him  waited  also  his  niece's  father,  the  professor  of  bac 
teriology,  and  Molly,  her  younger  sister.  The  professor 
was  almost  as  delicately  built  as  Gladys  herself.  His 
thick  hair  and  beard  were  snow  white,  but  his  near 
sighted  blue  eyes  looked  at  the  world  with  the  candor 
of  a  child.  His  manner  was  gentle  and  uncertain,  and 
his  attitude  toward  practical  and  worldly  things  one  of 
deprecating  detachment  and  incompetency,  but  he  was 
almost  invariably  beloved. 

Molly  was  a  good-looking  young  athlete  of  seventeen 
summers ;  tall  and  straight  of  limb,  with  shoulders  as 
broad  and  chest  as  deep  in  proportion  to  her  size  as 
those  of  any  man.  Her  mane  of  crisply  curling  hair 
was  brown,  as  were  her  eyes  and  skin,  and  her  large, 
well-bred  hands.  She  was  competent  in  the  use  of 
slang,  and  what  she  did  not  know  about  golf  and  golf 
clubs  was  not  worth  knowing.  When  she  entered  a 

126 


A   RETURN 

room  boisterous  breezes  from  open  fields  seemed  to 
enter  with  her. 

Molly  characterized  her  sister's  career  on  the  Conti 
nent  as  "  effete,"  but  waited  her  arrival  with  a  resent 
ment  born  of  a  tiny  unacknowledged  fear  of  her.  She 
felt  it  just  possible  that  Gladys  might  look  down  on 
her  clothes,  so  she  had  donned  her  manliest  suit  and 
hat  and  boots  in  self-defense. 

The  professor  had  given  up  a  meeting  of  the  com 
missioners  on  the  latest  poultry  disease  in  order  to  be 
present  at  his  daughter's  arrival,  and  this  neglect  of  a 
duty  which  was  also  his  pleasure,  caused  him  some  mild 
annoyance.  But  as  the  time  drew  near  for  expecting 
her  he  was  conscious  of  unusual  emotions,  and  once  or 
twice  he  took  off  his  near-sighted  glasses  to  wipe  them. 

"  The  steamer  was  at  the  dock  two  hours  ago.  Is  n't 
it  almost  time  for  them  to  be  here  ?  "  he  asked  ner 
vously. 

"  They  have  sixteen  trunks,"  said  Mr.  Stanwood. 

"  Sixteen  trunks !  "  cried  Molly  contemptuously. 
"  What  could  anything  short  of  a  traveling  theatrical 
show  want  of  sixteen  trunks  ?  " 

Mr.  Stanwood  shook  his  head.  "  They  are  probably 
full.  They  always  used  to  be,"  he  said  patiently. 
"  Then  there  will  be  the  baggage  of  the  English  maids. 
I  had  forgotten  them." 

"  Maids  !   Is  there  more  than  one  ?  " 

"  They  have  one  apiece,  I  believe." 

Molly  threw  up  her  head  with  much  the  movement 
of  an  indignant  colt. 

127 


THE   EVASION 

"  A  maid  apiece !  "  she  said.  "  If  Gladys  is  n't 
ashamed,  she  must  have  grown  effeminate  !  " 

"  Here  she  is !  "  cried  the  professor  from  the  window, 
and  Molly  looked  out  just  in  time  to  see  what  appeared 
to  be  a  tiny  duchess,  clad  in  dull  green  and  sables,  run 
up  the  steps. 


CHAPTER  II 

OVER    THE  TEA-CUPS 

_RS.  Stanwood  followed  her  niece  slowly,  but  her 
appearance  was  equally  bewildering  to  the  two  whose 
visions  of  raiment  were  limited  by  Aunt  Miranda's 
standards. 

The  professor  and  his  daughter  scarcely  knew 
Gladys  in  the  exquisite  little  mondaine,  whose  greet 
ings,  though  warm,  were  inevitably  limited  by  her 
Gainsborough  hat. 

"  Papa,  dear,  you  have  n't  changed  an  atom,  nor  you 
either,  Uncle  Willie.  Is  it  germs  and  beetles,  I  won 
der,  that  keeps  you  both  young  when  the  rest  of  us  — 
don't  laugh ;  I  was  twenty-one  last  month  and  I  feel 
as  if  oceans  of  time  —  oceans  and  oceans  of  it  —  had 
gone  over  me  since  I  went  away.  As  for  Molly,  —  stoop 
down,  Molly,  or  I  cannot  reach  you.  You  have  become 
a  grenadier.  I  thought  at  first  you  were  Harold  dressed 
as  a  girl ;  though,  if  it  comes  to  that,  you  are  not 
dressed  so  very  much  like  a  girl,  either.  You  might 
almost  be  one  of  the  mountain-climbing  Englishwomen 
one  meets." 

"If  I  thought  I  looked  like  the  English,  I  would 
buy  a  dress  like  yours  at  once,"  answered  Molly. 

"  You  could  n't  get  one,  my  child,  not  in  this  hemi- 
129 


THE   EVASION 

sphere,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Stan  wood,  kissing  her  niece 
lightly  on  the  forehead,  and  reflecting  with  dismay 
upon  this  latest  development  of  American  girlhood. 
"  Have  you  ordered  tea  for  us,  Willie  ?  We  are 
almost  starved." 

The  tea  arrived  at  that  moment,  and  Gladys  seated 
herself  behind  the  silver  service. 

"  Have  you  really  a  prejudice  against  the  English  ?  " 
she  asked,  measuring  out  the  hot  water. 

"  I  don't  call  it  a  prejudice,"  answered  Molly  hotly, 
"  but  I  have  n't  forgotten  the  Stamp  Act  and  Bunker 
Hill." 

"  Dear  me,  Molly,  it  was  so  long  ago,"  murmured 
Gladys,  "  and  they  have  forgotten." 

"Who?  The  English?"  Molly  laughed  shortly. 
"  I  rather  think  they  forgot  as  soon  as  they  could," 
she  said,  adding,  "  They  say  you  are  going  to  marry 
one  of  them." 

"  Which  one  ?  "  asked  Gladys,  serenely  pouring  out 
a  cup  of  tea.  "  I  am  making  this  strong  for  you,  Aunt 
Edith." 

"  I  hope  that  it  is  not  true,"  said  the  professor 
deprecatingly.  He  was  a  little  afraid  of  his  eldest 
daughter,  who  appeared  to  him  as  an  alien  of  dazzling 
species.  "  I  hope  that  it  is  not  true  ?  " 

"What,  papa?  That  I  am  giving  Aunt  Edith  a 
strong  cup  of  tea  ?  It  is  not  good  for  her.  I  have  often 
said  so." 

Molly  was  growing  more  and  more  resentful  of  her 
sister's  delicate,  indifferent  ease. 

130 


OVER  THE   TEA-CUPS 

"  Don't  pretend,  Gladys,"  she  said  bluntly.  "  You 
never  used  to." 

"Didn't  I?  Well,  I  do  now,"  answered  Gladys 
easily.  "  Papa,  I  have  forgotten  how  you  like  yours." 

"Is  it  true  about  the  Englishman?"  persisted 
Molly. 

"I  suppose  she  means  Sir  Kenneth,"  suggested 
Gladys,  appealing  to  her  aunt,  who,  teacup  in  hand, 
was  inspecting  the  condition  of  her  bibelots. 

"  Then  you  do  know  whom  I  mean,"  cried  Molly  tri 
umphantly.  "  Are  you  going  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Molly !  "  protested  Aunt  Edith.  "  How 
bluntly  you  put  things!  " 

"  Do  you  like  him,  Gladys  ?  " 

"  Sometimes." 

"  It  might  be  rather  dangerous  to  marry  a  man  whom 
you  only  liked  sometimes,"  suggested  the  professor 
timidly. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  told  him,  papa,"  answered 
Gladys. 

"  So  you  did  n't  pretend  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  yet  found  it  worth  while  to  pretend 
with  a  man." 

"  Then  it  is  not  true." 

"  That  I  am  going  to  marry  an  Englishman  ?  No, 
indeed." 

"  But  you  let  him  give  you  flowers,"  protested  Molly, 
only  half  appeased,  and  alluding  to  a  bunch  of  violets 
that  Gladys  wore  on  her  dress. 

She  put  down  her  cup  and  laughed.  "  Dear  Molly ! 
131 


THE   EVASION 

do  you  think  one  must  marry  every  man  whose  flowers 
one  wears  ?  And  if  you  will  think  again,  you  will  see 
that  violets  could  scarcely  keep  fresh  during  a  week  at 
sea.  No,  Arthur  gave  me  these." 

"Ah,"  said  Molly,  with  real  respect  in  her  voice, 
for  the  glamour  of  his  baseball  days  still  made  Arthur 
worshipful  in  the  eyes  of  the  athletic  girl. 

"  The  flowers  came  out  with  the  custom-house  offi 
cers,  and  Arthur  met  us  on  the  wharf,"  said  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood.  "  He  was  very  useful  in  helping  us  through  with 
our  boxes.  Don't  you  think  that  he  has  improved,  Wil 
lie?" 

"  I  have  scarcely  seen  him  since  you  left,"  answered 
Mr.  Stanwood,  looking  suddenly  at  Gladys. 

"  I  thought  he  had  improved  immensely,"  she  said. 
"  He  seems  quite  too  good  to  be  true  now,  with  his 
beauty  and  his  charm  and  his  money." 

"  I  suppose  you  will  see  a  great  deal  of  him  this 
winter,"  suggested  Molly  enviously. 

"  Perhaps  so.  He  was  never  very  interesting  as  a 
conversationalist,  but  I  think  he  would  be  a  most  orna 
mental  attendant  at  balls  and  other  places  where  a 
male  attachment  is  necessary  to  one's  self-respect." 

In  spite  of  her  sister's  white  hands  and  exquisite 
dress,  Molly  acknowledged  reluctantly  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  look  down  on  one  who  dared  to  speak  so 
casually  of  a  baseball  hero. 

"  Did  you  know  him  well  that  first  summer  you  went 
away?"  asked  Molly.  "We  had  an  idea  that  Dick 
Copeland  was  the  one  you  liked." 

132 


OVER   THE   TEA-CUPS 

At  the  sound  of  Dick's  name  Gladys's  hand  paused 
on  its  way  to  the  sugar-bowl,  and  in  the  sudden  arresta- 
tion  of  her  movement  there  was  a  suggestion  of  breath- 
lessness.  An  almost  imperceptible  pause  followed,  but 
before  her  aunt  could  come  to  the  rescue  the  girl  was 
speaking  quietly  for  herself. 

"  I  did  like  him,"  she  said. 

"  I  never  could  imagine  why,"  continued  Molly, 
unconsciously  ruthless.  "  I  used  to  see  him  sometimes 
when  he  came  to  look  after  his  own  place.  Why  did 
you  like  him,  Gladys  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  do  not  know.  Why  does  one  like  a  man  ?" 
Her  voice  was  light  and  languid.  "  I  think  I  remember 
liking  the  way  he  passed  the  salt  and  shook  hands." 

Mr.  Stanwood  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  much  relieved, 
and  content  that  he  need  not  reveal  his  nephew's  dis 
grace,  since  Gladys  spoke  so  carelessly  of  the  man  who 
had  assumed  it. 

"  That  is  almost  as  ridiculous  as  what  he  said  about 
you,"  said  Molly,  in  answer  to  her  sister's  last  re 
mark. 

"  About  me  "  -  A  close  observer  might  have  again 
noticed  a  breathlessness  in  the  perfectly  poised  little 
figure  at  the  tea-table.  "  When  did  you  see  him  to  talk 
about  me  ?  " 

"  It  was '  that  summer  before  he  went  West.  I  met 
him  at  his  own  gateway,  and  Mr.  Blake  introduced  us, 
and  I  asked  him  if  he  saw  much  of  you,  and  why  it  was 
people  said  you  were  so  different  from  other  people. 
He  smiled  in  a  queer  way,  and  then  he  said  that  if  I 

133 


THE   EVASION 

could  tell  him  what  charm  was,  or  why  violets  were 
sweeter  than  cornstalks,  he  would  tell  me  why  you  were 
different  from  other  people." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Stanwood  came  firmly  into  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

"  That  was  a  very  pretty  compliment,"  she  said. 
"  And  now,  Gladys,  it  is  time  we  took  a  rest,  for  there 
is  a  full  day  before  us  to-morrow." 

Gladys  rose  as  her  aunt  spoke,  and  the  little  party 
broke  up.  In  the  hall  alone  with  her  father  she  clung 
to  him  unexpectedly ;  and  her  voice  when  she  spoke 
was  as  forlorn  and  wistful  as  a  lonely  child's. 

"  Are  you  at  all  glad  to  see  me,  papa  ?  I  mean,  really 
glad?  "  she  asked.  She  had  removed  the  Gainsborough 
hat,  and  as  his  arms  came  about  her  she  leaned  against 
him  in  complete  relaxation. 

"  My  daughter  !  Of  course  I  am  glad  !  "  said  the 
professor,  embarrassed  but  happy,  for  it  seemed  to  him 
that  his  little  girl,  the  child  of  fifteen  years  ago,  lay 
again  in  his  arms. 

"  Really  glad,  papa  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  really  glad." 

"It  is  so  nice,"  continued  Gladys,  nestling  closer 
into  his  arms,  "  it  is  so  nice  to  be  with  some  one  you 
love." 

"  Don't  you  love  your  Aunt  Edith  ?  " 

"  Aunt  Edith  ?  Dear  me,  no !  It  would  worry  her 
dreadfully.  But  Aunt  Edith  and  I  understand  each 
other  perfectly,  and  that  is  the  most  important  thing, 
if  two  people  are  to  live  together.  Don't  you  think 

134 


OVEK   THE   TEA-CUPS 

so  ?   Don't  you  think  that  after  all  the  best  thing  is  to 
understand  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  might  be  better  to  love." 

"I  wonder" — said  Gladys,  still  lying  in  his  arms. 
"  If  you  understand  about  a  person  from  the  beginning 
you  know  what  to  expect,  and  then  they  could  not 
break  your  heart ;  but  if  you  loved  them  and  did  not 
understand  —  Do  you  believe  a  heart  can  be  broken, 
papa  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  child.  What  a  strange  ques 
tion!  "  The  professor  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  done 
quite  right  in  allowing  his  children  to  pass  so  entirely 
under  Miranda's  control  as  they  had  done  since  their 
mother's  death. 

"  I  was  wondering  if  I  could  not  come  out  and  stay 
with  you  a  little  while  this  autumn,  before  the  season 
begins,"  she  continued.  "  I  might  help  you  about 
things.  I  might  hold  a  germ  while  you  examined  it  — 
Oh,  no!  that  isn't  the  way  things  are  done,  is  it?  I 
had  forgotten."  She  laughed  a  little.  "  Do  you  think 
they  would  like  to  have  me  ?  I  am  afraid  I  irritated 
Molly  this  afternoon,  but  I  didn't  mean  to.  Molly 
is  handsome,  but  oh,  papa!  why  do  you  let  her  wear 
such  boots  ?  " 

"  Boots  !  "  repeated  the  professor,  startled. 

"  Yes,  boots.  Look  at  them  the  next  time  you  see 
her.  They  are  shameful;  they  might  be  a  man's.  I 
wonder  if  Molly  would  like  me  to  come  out  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  a  pleasure  —  a  happiness  —  for  us  all 
to  have  you  back  for  good  if  you  are  not  content." 

135 


THE   EVASION 

"  No !  Oh,  no !  I  could  never  go  back  to  live.  I 
did  not  mean  that,  for  I  am  content  here.  It  is  just 
the  kind  of  life  I  want.  Of  course,  I  thought  it  all 
over  while  I  was  away  —  thought  over  the  best  way 
for  me  to  be  happy,  I  mean  ;  and  it  is  people,  all  kinds 
of  people,  that  I  care  for,  and  the  things  they  bring. 
But  I  was  thinking  that  just  for  a  little  while  it  would 
be  nice  to  go  back.  How  is  Aunt  Miranda?" 

"  Miranda  is  well.  She  did  not  come  to-day,  because 
she  thought  there  would  be  quite  enough  of  the  rest  of 
us  ;  but  she  sent  her  love." 

Gladys  kissed  her  father,  and  slipped  out  of  his  arms 
with  a  change  of  manner.  Her  eyes  danced  suddenly 
as  she  helped  him  into  his  coat. 

"  Give  my  love  to  Aunt  Miranda,"  she  said,  "  and 
tell  her  that  I  have  improved  so  much  that  I  have 
really  learned  to  enjoy  doing  those  things  which  I 
ought  not  to  do." 


CHAPTER  III 


SISTERS 


LATI 


?E  the  next  afternoon  Molly  went  again  to  see 
her  sister,  and  was  sent  to  Mrs.  Stanwood's  boudoir, 
where  she  found  Gladys  sitting  on  the  floor  in  front  of 
the  fire  with  her  hands  clasped  about  her  knees.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  kimono  of  white  India  silk,  embroid 
ered  with  a  single  flock  of  green  birds  in  diminishing 
sizes.  The  tendrils  of  bright  hair  nestled  lovingly 
about  her  neck.  The  loose  garment  left  her  throat 
and  arms  partially  bare,  and  in  the  firelight  her  flesh 
was  rosy  and  transparent.  Firelight  was  wondrously 
becoming  to  Gladys,  and  in  the  glow  of  it  she  seemed 
infused  with  essences  of  flame  and  spirit.  Molly  was 
dimly  conscious  of  these  things  as  she  looked  at  her 
sister,  but  her  own  militant  spirit  remained  undaunted. 

"  What  is  that  thing  you  have  on  ?  "  she  asked  dis 
approvingly. 

Gladys  looked  down  at  her  wide  sleeve.    "  A  kimono  ; 
don't  you  like  it?    I  brought  you  one." 

Molly  sat  down  very  hard  upon  a  spiderlike  chair. 

"  Good  gracious,  Gladys  !  "  she  exclaimed.    "  What 
do  you  expect  me  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  thought  when  you  were  tired  "  — 

"  I  am  never  tired  ;  and  when  I  am,  I  go  to  sleep." 
137 


THE   EVASION 

She  rose  again  dutifully  to  kiss  her  aunt,  who  en 
tered  at  that  moment  dressed  in  a  neglige  of  white 
lace,  and  in  spite  of  herself  she  was  penetrated  by  a 
sense  of  discomfort  in  the  manliness  of  her  own  attire ; 
but  it  was  a  discomfort  which  she  would  never  have 
acknowledged. 

"  I  only  came  in  for  a  moment  to  bring  you  the 
tickets,"  she  said.  "  It  is  lucky  that  you  came  back  in 
time  for  the  game." 

"  The  game !  " 

"  What  game  ?  " 

"  Whose  game  ?  " 

"  She  is  probably  speaking  of  football,"  said  Mrs. 
Stanwood,  suddenly  enlightened  by  past  experience. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  remember  what  football  is." 
Molly  spoke  with  bitter  sarcasm. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  It  is  something  like  baseball.  In 
one  game  the  object  is  to  run  as  fast  as  you  can,  and 
in  the  other  the  object  is  to  prevent  any  one  else  from 
running ;  but  I  can't  remember  which  is  which." 

Molly  paused  indignantly.  "  I  am  afraid  that  you 
are  entirely  given  over  to  vanities,"  she  said  finally. 

"  So  are  you,  Molly,  only  to  different  kinds  of  vani 
ties,"  observed  her  aunt.  "  Gladys  is  proud  of  her  white 
hands ;  you  are  proud  of  your  brown  ones.  It  is  her 
vanity  to  look  as  well  as  she  can ;  it  is  yours  to  look  as 
athletic.  Where  she  would  care  to  be  the  controlling 
force  in  a  roomful  of  clever  men  and  women,  you 
would  wish  to  win  a  golf  tournament  and  stride  over 
the  fields  in  a  short  skirt  and  unwieldy  boots,  with  a 

138 


SISTERS 

hundred  or  so  of  sporting  admirers  trailing  after  you 
in  company  with  several  newspaper  reporters  and  a 
camera  fiend.  Some  women  are  proud  of  their  wit, 
others  are  proud  of  their  biceps,  but  it  is  vanity  all 
the  same.  You  can't  blame  Gladys  for  her  lack  of 
interest  in  football  when  she  has  dined  with  ambas 
sadors,  talked  with  cardinals,  danced  with  descendants 
of  Gruelphs  and  Ghibellines." 

"  And  been  spoiled  for  all  the  real,  strenuous,  whole 
some  American  things,"  answered  Molly,  rising  to  take 
her  leave.  "  Well,  so  long,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  Molly ! "  protested  Gladys,  "  I  thought  only 
boys  said  '  so  long.'  " 

Molly  laughed  good-naturedly.  "You  have  really 
grown  effeminate,"  she  said.  "  I  suspected  it  as  soon 
as  I  heard  of  the  sixteen  trunks  and  the  two  maids." 

When  the  last  sound  of  her  boots  fell  silent,  Gladys 
and  her  aunt  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Effeminate  !  "  said  Mrs.  Stanwood. 

"  Effeminate !  "  echoed  Gladys  softly,  and  they  both 
laughed. 

"  And  I  must  bring  her  out." 

"  I  suppose  so.  In  the  meantime,  we  must  try  to 
make  her  as  *  effeminate '  as  we  can." 

Aunt  Edith  turned  to  her  desk,  while  Gladys  sat  on 
in  the  firelight,  and  for  a  time  there  was  silence.  Then 
Gladys  sighed. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  is  right,"  she  said. 

"Who?" 

"Molly." 

139 


THE   EVASION 

"  Right  in  what  ?  " 

"  In  saying  that  I  am  spoiled.  Aunt  Edith,  do  you 
remember  the  night  in  Rome  " 

Mrs.  Stanwood  turned,  pen  in  hand. 

"  The  night  in  Rome,  when  the  heads  of  the  two 
great  factions  —  the  prince  of  the  Church  and  the 
prince  of  the  State  —  met  in  your  salon  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Stanwood,  laying  down  her  pen. 

With  a  little  challenging  laugh,  Gladys  lifted  her 
arms  and  clasped  them  behind  her  head. 

"That  was  a  moment  worth  living  for,"  she  said. 
"  It  made  you  draw  in  your  breath  like  the  first  shock 
of  a  steel  blade.  Do  you  remember  the  sudden  silence 
in  the  room  ?  It  needed  all  your  nerve,  Aunt  Edith, 
all  your  daring  and  charm,  to  carry  it  through.  But 
you  did  carry  it,  and  I  think  I  helped  a  little  —  with 
one  or  two  of  the  secretaries." 

"  You  did  help,"  her  aunt  admitted  generously. 
"You  were  a  splendid  support  that  night.  You  and 
I  might  go  far  together,  Gladys.  The  difficulty  is, 
that  I  should  end  by  being  jealous  of  you ;  for  if 
I  have  what  you  call  charm  and  daring,  you  have 
more." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Edith!  how  can  you  say  that?  If  I 
know  anything,  it  is  because  you  have  taught  me." 

"  You  are  an  apt  pupil,  my  child." 

"  There  was  another  time,"  continued  Gladys,  "  a 
day  when  I  worried  a  diplomatic  secret  out  of  that 
foolish  secretary,  and  the  minister  suspected  it,  and 
passed  the  entire  evening  at  the  Sciarra  reception 

140 


with  me,  trying  to  find  out  how  much  I  knew.  I  held 
the  minister  in  the  palm  of  my  hand  that  night, 
and  I  made  the  most  of  him."  She  laughed  again,  and 
a  light  that  did  not  come  from  the  fire  danced  and 
leapt  in  her  eyes.  "  Ah,  those  were  days !  days ! 
days ! "  she  cried,  stretching  her  arms  high  above  her 
head  and  then  letting  them  fall.  "  And  we  have  come 
back  to  football.  Yes,  it  is  true,  Aunt  Edith,  you  have 
spoiled  me." 

"  It  is  very  different  here,"  admitted  her  aunt. 
"  There  are  plenty  of  balls  and  dinners  and  recep 
tions,  but  no  society  worthy  of  the  name.  However, 
such  as  it  is,  we  shall  make  the  most  of  it.  There  are 
clever  men  here,  whom  it  is  difficult  to  force  from  their 
fireside,  but  between  us  I  think  we  can  make  it  worth 
their  while  to  come.  Then  there  are  the  artists  and 
musicians.  We  will  have  them,  or  such  of  them  as  are 
presentable  and  do  not  wear  their  hair  too  long,  — 
though  I  should  not  make  long  hair  an  absolute  barrier 
to  receiving  them.  I  think  we  might  have  something 
of  a  salon  in  the  end,  something  that  is  different,  at  any 
rate,  from  what  every  one  else  has.  And  we  will  not 
have  bridge,  Gladys.  We  will  not  turn  our  drawing- 
rooms  into  a  combination  of  gambling  and  drinking 
saloon,  as  most  prominent  women  are  doing  to-day. 
Our  business  shall  be  with  men  and  women  rather  than 
with  games,  with  ideas  rather  than  aces.  We  both  have 
wit  enough  for  something  higher  and  more  subtle  than 
bridge,  thank  Heaven !  But  I  doubt  if  I  could  have 
found  another  girl  in  Boston  who  could  support  me 

141 


THE   EVASION 

as  you  can.  You  are  my  own  niece,  child,  in  spite  of 
Miranda.  And  you  will  make  a  success  of  things,  as  I 
have  done." 

"I  intend  to  make  a  success  of  life,"  said  Gladys 
quietly. 

"  Then  you  must  find  out  what  you  want,  and  the 
way  to  get  it,  my  dear." 

"I  am  not  so  much  afraid  of  being  unable  to  get 
what  I  want  as  of  not  knowing  what  I  want,  or  of 
being  unhappy  when  I  have  it,"  said  Gladys.  "  Mak 
ing  a  success  of  life  will  not  be  so  simple  for  me  as  for 
you,  Aunt  Edith." 

"Why  not,  cherie?" 

"  Because  I  can  suffer,  and  I  do  not  believe  that 
you  can." 

Mrs.  Stan  wood  laughed  easily.  "  What  a  curious 
notion !  And  if  it  comes  to  that,  what  do  you  know 
about  suffering  ?  " 

Gladys  paused,  and  the  delicate  lines  of  her  mouth 
grew  almost  stern. 

"  I  stood  on  the  edge  of  it  one  night,  and  looked  in," 
she  said  slowly.  "  I  looked  in,  and  I  shall  never  for 
get."  Lifting  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  she  pushed 
back  her  hair,  and  stared  into  the  fire  as  though  the 
vision  were  there.  What  she  really  saw  was  the  face 
of  a  boy,  a  dark,  strong  face  with  deep-lit  eyes.  "  At 
one  moment  it  seemed  as  though  I  were  going  to  fall 
in,  and  then  I  went  by  —  I  went  by,  and  I  was  saved ; 
but  I  can  never  forget.  There  will  always  be  the 
knowledge  of  the  dark  place  with  its  awful  undertow 

142  J 


SISTEES 

sounding  in  my  ears ! "  She  shivered  and  dropped 
her  arm. 

"  I  went  by,  and  I  was  saved,"  she  repeated.  "  But 
it  has  made  a  coward  of  me  ever  since,  and  that  is  why 
I  am  so  determined  not  to  make  mistakes,  so  that  my 
life  can  be  a  success.  I  will  not  suffer  as  I  might  have 
suffered  that  night.  I  will  not !  —  and  yet  I  know  that 
I  am  a  fool  as  I  say  it  —  a  fool !  a  fool !  I  know  that 
things  might  happen  to  me  at  any  moment  which 
would  ruin  my  life  —  take  all  joy  out  of  it  for  ever 
and  ever,  and  I  must  be  very  careful  to  keep  out  of 
the  way  of  those  things.  But  I  know  also  that  if  they 
came  knocking  at  my  door  and  calling  to  me  I  should 
go  out  to  meet  them,  and  nothing  would  stop  me." 
Her  head  fell  back  a  little,  and  her  face  with  its  closed 
eyes  was  white  and  passionate. 

"  I  should  go  out  to  meet  them,  though  I  knew  they 
would  lead  me  to  the  dark  place  —  and  the  floods  "  — 

Mrs.  Stanwood  rose  decisively.  "My  child,  you 
must  be  exceedingly  tired,  and  I  insist  upon  your 
lying  down  before  you  dress  for  dinner,"  she  said. 
"  Come." 

Standing  by  Gladys,  she  held  out  her  hand ;  and  as 
the  girl  opened  her  eyes  a  more  normal  color  came  into 
her  face,  —  she  even  smiled  faintly. 

"  Aunt  Edith,  you  are  good  for  me,  you  are  so  serene, 
so  calm,  so  cool.  You  would  not  go  out  to  meet  any 
dangerous  persons  who  knocked  at  your  door,  would 
you?" 

"  My  dear,  no  dangerous  persons  would  ever  knock 
143 


THE   EVASION 

at  my  doors,"  answered  Mrs.  Stanwood,  with  cheerful 
candor.  "  If  they  did,  I  should  not  hear  them.  I  have 
not  that  temperament.  And  now  you  must  lie  down. 
Wilson  will  call  you  in  time  to  dress." 

Gladys  rose  and  stood  a  moment  without  moving. 

"  But  what  I  have  been  saying  is  true,"  she  said. 
"  True,  even  though  it  is  well  to  laugh  at  it." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    GAME 

_LN  spite  of  herself,  Gladys  was  drawn  into  enthu 
siasm  for  the  game,  and  early  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  when  the  great  rival  colleges  were  to  meet  on  the 
gridiron,  a  party  consisting  of  Mrs.  Stanwood  and  both 
of  her  nieces,  with  Mr.  Stanwood  and  Leslie  Aldrich 
(who  had  come  on  to  Boston  for  the  occasion)  were 
assembled  in  the  hall,  waiting  for  Arthur's  automobile, 
which  was  to  take  them  to  Cambridge.  Arthur  himself 
had  long  since  been  in  private  retirement  with  the 
"  squad  "  for  which  he  was  one  of  the  coaches. 

Considerable  excitement  was  caused  at  the  outset  of 
the  occasion  by  the  appearance  of  Gladys  in  a  costume 
of  blue  velvet. 

"  I  won't  go  with  you.  I  won't  be  seen  with  any  one 
wearing  Yale  colors,"  declared  Molly  stormily. 

"  Is  it,  then,  a  disgrace  to  wear  Yale  colors  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Aldrich  gently,  putting  up  his  monocle  to  look  at 
the  offending  garment.  "I  think  Miss  Gladys  looks 
exceedingly  well." 

Peace  was  restored  when  the  butler  handed  Gladys 
a  box  of  crimson  roses  which  Arthur  had  sent  her ; 
and  when  she  had  fastened  two  or  three  of  them  in 
her  dress  and  consented  to  carry  a  crimson  flag,  her 

145 


THE   EVASION 

sister  was  comforted.  Molly  had  purchased  a  large 
quantity  of  flags,  Harvard  badges,  and  tiny  footballs, 
and  it  was  while  pinning  several  of  the  latter  on  to  her 
uncle's  coat  that  Mr.  Aldrich,  who  had  been  observ 
ing  her  with  mild  curiosity,  spoke  to  her  for  the  first 
time. 

"  I  feel  a  disorganized  and  most  unexpected  desire  to 
possess  a  flag  or  a  football.  May  I  not  have  one,  Miss 
Molly?" 

Molly  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  "Why  are  you 
going  to  the  game  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  was  told  that  it  would  give  me  emotions,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  thought  I  would  try  the  receipt." 

"  You  may  have  a  flag,"  she  answered  grudgingly, 
after  considering  his  explanation,  "but  you  must 
promise  to  wave  it." 

"  I  will  wave  it  whenever  you  tell  me  to,"  answered 
Mr.  Aldrich  meekly.  "  Indeed,  I  feel  that  the  waving 
of  a  flag  at  proper  moments  might  have  emotional  pos 
sibilities  which  it  would  be  a  crime  to  neglect." 

"  The  whole  city  seems  quite,  quite  mad,"  said 
Gladys.  "  The  shops  are  iridescent  with  Harvard  and 
Yale  colors,  there  are  crimson  pills  and  blue  pills  in  the 
druggists'  windows,  there  are  crimson  and  blue  hats  in 
the  milliners'.  No  florist  would  dare  to  display  any 
thing  but  crimson  and  blue  flowers,  or  a  confectioner 
expect  to  be  patronized  unless  he  could  offer  crimson 
and  blue  candies.  And  as  for  the  crowds  pouring  into 
the  city  "  - 

"  I  had  to  stand  for  half  an  hour  in  the  train,"  inter- 
146 


THE   GAME 

rupted  Mr.  Aldrich  feelingly.  "  I  have  never  seen  any 
thing  like  it  since  the  Queen's  jubilee." 

At  this  moment  Molly  gave  a  great  shout.  "  The 
automobile  has  come,"  she  cried ;  and  as  it  was  one  of 
the  earliest  of  its  kind,  the  excitement  of  entering  it  was 
intense.  Mr.  Aldrich  looked  at  the  thundering,  quiver 
ing  monster  with  assumed  dismay. 

"  I  understand  these  things  to  be  the  abode  of  the 
strange  and  the  unexpected,"  he  said.  "Is  it  really 
wise  to  entrust  ourselves  and  our  flags  and  our  possible 
emotions  to  its  mercy  ?  " 

Molly  emitted  something  between  a  shout  and  a  war- 
whoop  as  they  sped  on  their  thundering  way  through  the 
crowded,  noisy  streets,  and  Gladys  began  to  wonder  if 
there  were  not  something  in  American  life,  after  all. 
The  throng  of  people  and  carriages  flowing  in  one  direc 
tion  was  so  great  that  Arthur's  car  could  soon  go  no 
faster  than  the  slowest  hack-horse,  and  Mr.  Aldrich 
took  advantage  of  the  pace  to  remark  upon  the  things 
about  him. 

"  A  city  of  cold-blooded  business  men  as  drunk  with 
enthusiasm  as  a  southern  race  with  spring  sunshine," 
he  said.  "  Seven  thousand  students  who  have  thought 
and  worked  and  dreamed  for  weeks  of  this  one  '  crowded 
hour,'  forty  thousand  people  sitting  on  hard  benches 
with  no  backs,  on  a  cold  day,  and  cheering  and  shout 
ing  because  twenty-two  young  ruffians  are  trying  to 
carry  a  ball  over  a  line.  While  such  things  can  be, 
there  is  hope  for  the  nation.  Troy  is  not  yet  fallen." 

"  Troy  is  not  yet  half  built,"  cried  Molly,  who  was 
147 


THE   EVASION 

fresh  enough  from  her  school-books  to  understand  the 
allusion.    "  America  and  Harvard  forever !  " 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and,  recognizing  some  friends 
in  an  adjacent  landau,  unfolded  a  crimson  banner  that 
streamed  several  feet  behind  her  on  the  breeze. 

Mr.  Aldrich  looked  at  the  handsome  and  aggressively 
assertive  figure.   "  Young  America,"  he  murmured,  — 
"  young  America  incarnate.   It  is  a  trifle  noisy,  and 
might  be  fatiguing  if  one  had  a  headache,  but  it  is 
mettlesome  and  sure  to  '  get  there.'  " 

Mrs.  Stanwood  did  not  tell  her  niece  to  sit  down,  or 
to  make  herself  less  conspicuous,  for  she  was  sufficiently 
alive  to  the  dramatic  values  of  the  situation  to  see  that 
Molly  was  entirely  in  harmony  with  them. 

Gladys  was  unusually  silent,  but  her  eyes  sparkled, 
and  she  was  conscious  of  having  lost  for  the  first  time 
that  cold  and  sluggish  feeling  which  had  been  at  her 
heart  ever  since  her  return  to  America. 

Once  a  year,  on  the  occasion  of  the  great  ball  game, 
Boston,  the  city  of  workers,  forsakes  its  duties,  and,  dis 
daining  practical  issues,  flings  its  gates  wide  to  a  huge 
and  joyous  enthusiasm  which  can  neither  be  ignored 
nor  despised.  Clouds  of  dust  rose  in  the  still  air  from 
the  feet  of  multitudes,  and  in  the  sunlight  of  a  Novem 
ber  afternoon  this  dust  seemed  as  a  golden  mist,  while 
through  it,  to  the  movement  of  streaming  banners, 
and  cheers  and  song,  a  great  people  went  as  to  a 
national  event.  But  still  the  girl  was  conscious  of  a 
sense  of  detachment,  of  being  an  observer  rather  than  a 
partaker  of  the  vital  currents  about  her,  and  it  was  not 

148 


THE   GAME 

till  seated  in  the  vast  amphitheatre,  among  forty  thou 
sand  spectators,  all  more  or  less  drunk  with  excitement, 
that  she  gave  herself  unreservedly  into  the  arms  of  this 
monster  enthusiasm. 

The  benches  were  swept  by  sounding  waves  of  the 
cheers  that  stir  elemental  forces,  —  the  forces  that  have 
made  nations  eager  to  go  forth  to  battle  and  victory 
and  death.  Enclosed  in  the  arms  of  the  amphitheatre 
was  a  field  where  twenty-two  uncouth  giants  fought 
for  the  ball  which  was  their  symbol  of  glory.  Arthur 
was  there  consulting,  encouraging,  and  advising,  con 
spicuous,  in  the  grace  and  symmetry  of  his  perfectly 
tailored  person,  among  the  players,  who  were  disfigured 
by  nose-guards  and  portentous  paddings  at  knees  and 
shoulders.  He  was  one  of  the  observed  of  observers,  as 
much  for  his  height  and  aristocratic  profile  as  for 
memory  of  his  past  honors. 

"  Is  n't  he  handsome  ?  "  said  a  girl  to  her  friend  on 
the  bench  below  Gladys.  "My  sister  knows  him  to 
bow  to." 

Gladys  looked  down  at  her  roses,  and  was  not  above 
a  thrill  of  triumph.  Shortly  after  that  a  cheer  was 
given  with  Arthur  Davenport's  name  at  the  end  of  it ; 
and  while  the  ring  of  it  was  still  in  her  ears,  and  the 
excitement  of  it  tingling  in  her  veins,  Arthur  himself 
shouldered  a  difficult  way  towards  her. 

He  spoke  to  his  aunt,  arranging  a  place  of  meeting 
after  the  game,  and  then  stood  below  Gladys  with  his 
head  bared  in  the  golden  sunlight,  while  he  talked  to  her 
alone.  Had  she  thought  his  mouth  weak?  It  was  hid- 

149 


THE  EVASION 

den  now  by  a  yellow  mustache.  The  radiance  of  suc 
cess  and  happiness  was  on  his  face,  the  glamour  of 
this  splendid  hour  and  his  share  in  it  was  about  him, 
so  that  he  seemed  to  her  a  victor  and  hero ;  and  al 
ready  she  knew  herself  to  be  the  woman  he  had  chosen. 

When  he  went  back  to  the  field,  people  turned  to 
stare  at  and  envy  her,  and  again  she  felt  the  thrill  of 
her  triumph.  Of  the  game  itself  she  knew  little  enough 
in  spite  of  Molly's  explanations ;  but  she  could  follow 
it  sufficiently  to  understand  that  victory  was  with  the 
crimson,  and  whenever  her  own  college  smashed  the 
enemy's  lines,  and  the  serried  ranks  of  spectators  rose 
as  one  man  to  cheer,  the  drama  of  the  situation  swayed 
her  tumultuously. 

Mr.  Aldrich,  with  his  monocle  in  his  eye  and  his  chin 
on  the  hands  folded  over  his  cane,  surveyed  the  battle 
field  to  a  running  commentary  of  reflections. 

"  I  understand  that  one  of  the  players  was  operated 
upon  for  appendicitis  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  is  practi 
cally  risking  his  life  to  play,"  he  said.  "  I  am  also  told 
that  any  worthy  member  of  the  team  would  consent  to 
being  disfigured  or  maimed  for  life  rather  than  not  do 
his  share  to  support  the  honor  and  glory  of  his  col 
lege.  Are  these  young  men  fools  or  heroes  ?  Is  this  a 
ball  game  or  a  national  event  ?  Is  it  very  silly  or  very 
fine?" 

"  I  think  it  is  very  fine,"  said  Gladys. 

"  It  is  certainly  very  cold,"  said  her  aunt,  "  and  I  am 
inclined  to  think  it  very  silly.  Dreadful  accidents 
happen  sometimes." 

150 


THE   GAME 

Even  as  Mrs.  Stanwood  spoke  the  players  separated, 
and  one  of  them  lay  stretched  on  the  field,  visibly  writh 
ing  with  pain.  Time  was  called,  and  a  doctor,  a  pail  of 
water,  and  a  score  of  anxious  sympathizers  were  brought 
into  action.  It  was  some  minutes  before  the  injured 
man  struggled  to  his  feet  supported  by  two  friends,  and 
after  staggering  about  the  field,  gained  control  of  him 
self  and  returned  to  the  battle,  accompanied  by  hearty 
applause  from  both  sections. 

The  ready  tears  stood  in  Gladys's  eyes.  "  How  can 
he  possibly  go  back  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Of  course  he  went  back,"  answered  Molly.  "  Any 
of  them  would  go  back  while  they  could  move." 

"  It  seems  as  if  so  much  enthusiasm  and  self-sacrifice 
might  be  given  in  a  better  cause,"  remarked  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood. 

"  It  is  n't  the  cause  that  matters,"  returned  Mr.  Al- 
drich.  "  This  enthusiasm  and  self-sacrifice  is  the  same 
that  led  the  Greeks  to  die  at  Thermopylae,  the  same 
uncomfortable  and  indomitable  spirit  that  has  made 
the  greatness  of  nations  since  the  beginning." 

As  the  game  progressed  several  occurrences  of  this 
sort  caused  Gladys  to  hold  her  breath  and  suffer  keenly, 
and  she  was  not  the  only  one  exhausted  with  excite 
ment  when  the  last  great  run  was  made  by  the  Harvard 
full-back,  at  a  time  when  there  remained  only  one  min 
ute  in  which  to  play.  It  was  then  that  enthusiasm  be 
came  a  delirium,  leaping  from  tier  to  tier  like  flame. 
Hats,  scarfs,  muffs,  and  banners  were  flung  into  the  air, 
and  cheer  rolled  upon  cheer  in  crashing  avalanches  of 

151 


THE   EVASION 

sound.  Molly  stood  on  the  bench,  and  lifting  her  chest, 
gave  a  cry  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  Valkyrie 
maiden.  Gladys  stood  beside  her  cheering  also,  waving 
her  flag  in  a  frenzy,  caught  up  and  out  of  herself  by 
the  splendid  tumult,  and  tears  of  exultation  stood  in 
her  eyes. 

Five  minutes  later  she  was  passing  out  of  the  arena 
with  the  great  audience. 

"It  is  better  than  tormenting  the  ambassador  at 
Borne,"  she  told  her  aunt.  "  It  is  better  and  finer  than 
anything  I  have  ever  known.  I  am  glad  I  am  an 
American.  I  am  glad  you  brought  me  home  when  you 
did,  Aunt  Edith."  There  was  blue  fire  in  her  eyes,  and 
her  cheeks  flamed. 

Molly  clapped  her  on  the  back.  "  Bravo,  Gladys ! 
You  are  the  right  sort,  after  all,"  she  cried. 

Gladys  laughed  and  restrained  an  impulse  to  clap 
her  sister  in  turn.  She  buried  her  face  in  her  roses 
instead,  and  because  it  was  an  hour  of  victory  she 
thought  happily  of  her  personal  conquest  of  one  who 
had  been  conspicuous  in  the  glory  of  this  day.  It  was 
then  that  she  noticed  a  letter  that  was  falling  from 
the  pocket  of  Mr.  Aldrich,  who  walked  beside  her. 

"  You  are  losing  something,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  the  letter,  and  then  he  looked  at  her. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  ;  "  I  should  have  been  sorry  to 
have  lost  it.  It  is  from  Richard  Copeland." 

"  Ah ! " 

Mr.  Aldrich  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  regretting 
the  growing  darkness  which  began  to  hide  her  face. 

152 


THE   GAME 

"  Is  he  in  Boston  ?  "  asked  Gladys,  and  Mr.  Aldrich 
also  regretted  the  noise  about  them,  which  prevented 
him  from  hearing  the  undertones  of  her  voice. 

"  No,  he  is  not  in  Boston, —  he  is  out  West,  working 
in  a  mine  like  any  laborer." 

"  Ah !  "  she  said  again. 

"  I  have  only  seen  him  once  in  two  years,"  he  con 
tinued,  "and  he  only  writes  to  me  when  he  wants 
money.  He  seems  to  want  a  great  deal  of  money," 
Mr.  Aldrich  pursued  reflectively. 

Gladys  drew  her  furs  about  her  face.  "  I  suppose 
so,"  she  said,  and  even  through  the  tumult  he  could 
hear  her  voice  grow  hard  and  cold. 

"  So  she  believes  it,"  he  thought.  "  The  question  is 
—  does  she  care  ?  " 

Aloud  he  added,  "  He  needs  a  great  deal  of  money ; 
but  I  am  bound  to  say  that,  judging  by  the  looks  of 
his  clothes,  very  little  of  it  goes  on  to  his  back." 


CHAPTER  V 
ARTHUR'S  WOOING 

JjEFORE  returning  to  New  York,  where  the  social 
life  was  more  pungent  and  suited  to  his  tastes  than 
anything  he  could  find  in  Boston,  Mr.  Aldrich  had  some 
words  with  Mrs.  Stanwood  about  Dick  Copeland. 

"I  spoke  to  your  niece  about  him,"  he  said,  "and 
it  is  evident  that  she  believes  him  to  be  the  man  who 
cheated." 

"  Don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich  slowly.  "  I  have 
lived  long  enough  to  know  that  one  does  not  know, 
nine  cases  out  of  ten." 

"  But  he  confessed  it  —  practically." 

"  Which  means  that  he  did  not  confess  it  actually. 
He  was  very  young  at  the  time,  and  when  we  are  young 
and  unjustly  accused, —  supposing  him  to  have  been 
unjustly  accused, —  we  are  also  very  angry ;  and  when 
we  are  young  and  very  angry  there  is  no  knowing  what 
foolishness  we  may  not  commit.  It  would  be  just  like 
Copeland  to  scorn  to  defend  himself  under  such  circum 
stances.  He  has  done  a  sufficient  number  of  foolish 
things  since  then  to  prove  himself  capable  of  almost 
anything  in  that  line." 

"  I  understand  that  he  is  working  in  a  mine." 
154 


ARTHUR'S  WOOING 

"  It  was  a  mine  the  last  time  I  heard  from  him.  Be 
fore  that  it  was  a  railroad,  and  in  a  short  time  it  is  to 
be  mills.  He  has  a  notion  that  one  can  only  under 
stand  labor  conditions  by  living  them,  so  he  is  living 
them,  and  creating  considerable  disturbance  all  along 
the  line.  I  expect  that  some  day  I  shall  have  to  get 
him  out  of  jail.  In  the  meantime  the  process  is  not 
becoming  to  him.  The  last  time  I  saw  him  " — 

Mr.  Aldrich  shook  his  head  as  he  watched  the  smoke 
rings  of  his  cigar.  "  He  is  getting  rid  of  a  lot  of  money 
—  just  as  much  as  I  will  give  him,  and  when  he  comes 
into  the  whole  of  it,  I  don't  know  what  will  happen." 

"  When  does  he  have  his  fortune  outright  ?  " 

"  It  is  in  trust  —  my  trust  —  till  he  is  thirty.  If  you 
ask  me  why  thirty  was  fixed  upon  as  his  year  of  prob 
able  discretion,  I  can  only  answer  that  I  do  not  know. 
It  was  a  whim  of  his  father's." 

"  When  you  saw  him  did  you  make  any  reference  to 
his  disgrace  ?  " 

"  Not  the  slightest.  He  never  gave  me  a  chance  to 
refer  to  anything,  evidently  taking  it  for  granted  that 
I  believed  him  guilty.  He  only  saw  me  in  order  to  sign 
a  necessary  paper,  which  he  did  in  perfect  silence,  and 
went  out  again  without  so  much  as  offering  to  shake 
hands.  I  am  in  the  dark  as  to  what  he  is  doing  with 
his  income,  and  he  may  be  no  end  of  a  scoundrel,  but 
I  don't  believe  it."  Mr.  Aldrich  spoke  vigorously,  for 
getting  his  customary  caution.  "  I  don't  believe  it,"  he 
added. 

Mrs.  Stanwood  was  growing  tired  of  the  subject. 
155 


THE   EVASION 

"  He  is  quite  out  of  the  game  now,"  she  said.  "  So  I 
do  not  know  that  we  need  agitate  ourselves  about  him. 
Only  I  would  not  speak  of  him  to  Gladys.  His  name 
acts  like  a  corrosive  acid  on  any  enjoyment  she  may 
be  having.  The  strange  thing  about  it  all  is,  that  if 
he  did  not  cheat,  Arthur  did,  and  that  seems  almost 
impossible." 

"Arthur,  the  darling  of  the  gods  —  and  women," 
murmured  Mr.  Aldrich,  looking  at  the  point  of  his 
cigar.  "  Do  you  think  your  niece  will  marry  him  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Ah !  "  Mr.  Aldrich  contemplated  his  cigar  a  little 
longer,  and  then  replaced  it  in  his  mouth. 

"  It  is  none  of  my  business,"  he  said. 

"  Not  in  the  slightest  degree,  Leslie,  and  I  beg  that 
you  will  not  make  it  so." 

"  Copeland  is  coming  to  this  part  of  the  world  soon," 
he  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  that  can  concern  Gladys  or  my 
self." 

"  He  is  coming  to  work  in  Massachusetts  factories." 

"  It  is  scarcely  likely  that  my  niece  will  meet  him 
there,  and  should  she  come  across  him  anywhere  else, 
why,"  —  Mrs.  Stan  wood  shrugged  her  shoulders,  —  "he 
has  put  himself  quite  effectively  beyond  the  pale  of 
recognition." 

"  Are  n't  you  putting  it  a  bit  strong  ?  There  are  fel 
lows  who  have  done  what  he  is  supposed  to  have  done 
without  being  socially  ostracized." 

"  But  it 's  the  man's  reputation  in  other  ways,  and 
156 


ARTHUK'S   WOOING 

then  there  are  the  immense  sums  of  money  he  gets 
rid  of  no  one  knows  how.  And  how  about  the  factory 
girl?" 

"  So  you  have  heard  that  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  have." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  believe  that  he  is  paying  for 
her  education  in  an  art  school.  Voila  tout!  " 

Mrs.  Stanwood  laughed. 

"  Leslie !  Leslie  !  I  believe  that  you  have  really 
permitted  yourself  to  be  interested  in  him." 

"  I  have,"  he  admitted  ruefully.  "  I  liked  the  boy.  I 
like  the  man,  worse  luck  !  " 

Gladys's  autumn  visit  to  her  old  home  had  been  aban 
doned  in  view  of  the  early  festivities  at  which  it  seemed 
necessary  that  she  should  appear.  Only  one  night  did 
she  spend  in  the  little  room  which  had  sheltered  her 
early  girlhood,  and  that  was  in  order  to  eat  a  Sunday 
dinner  with  her  family,  which  on  this  day  included 
her  brother  Harold,  who  was  on  leave  from  boarding- 
school. 

Harold  looked  his  sister  over  with  the  critical  and 
discerning  eye  of  eighteen,  and  expressed  himself 
frankly  on  the  subject  to  Molly. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Molly,  you  and  girls  like  you  who 
go  in  for  muscle  and  manliness  are  off  the  trolley. 
Gladys  can  teach  you  a  thing  or  two,  and  you  could  n't 
do  better  than  learn  what  she  teaches.  When  it  comes 
to  real  things,  such  as  making  other  people  do  what  you 
like,  having  power  over  men  and  women,  and  taking 

157 


THE   EVASION 

laurels  generally  all  along  the  line,  Gladys  can  give 
you  all  the  go-by ;  though  1  suppose  you  could  swing 
her  over  a  five-barred  fence  with  your  left  hand.  She 
is  as  delicate  as  a  bit  of  Dresden  china,  and  her  deli 
cacy  is  more  powerful  than  all  the  muscles  in  your 
body.  I  am  glad  I  am  her  brother,  for  if  I  were  any 
one  else  I  should  be  in  love  with  her  way  over  my 
head,  and  she  would  n't  look  at  me.  It  is  the  feminine 
women  men  fall  in  love  with,  not  the  ones  who  can 
match  them  on  the  tennis  courts  and  golf  links,  and 
don't  you  forget  it." 

"  You  are  talking  like  a  fool,"  answered  Molly,  with 
natural  resentment.  "  One  would  suppose  that  the  only 
thing  worth  a  girl's  while  was  to  please  men.  Gladys 
is  old-fashioned.  We  are  finding  things  more  impor 
tant  to  reckon  with  than  men." 

"  And  that 's  another  rum  thing  about  some  of  you 
modern  women,"  continued  Harold.  "  It 's  those  of 
you  who  are  most  scornful  of  man  who  take  the  great 
est  pains  to  imitate  him.  Look  at  your  boots,  your 
coat,  your  hat,  your  stride.  They  are  a  direct  imitation 
of  the  creature  you  pretend  to  despise." 

This  was  a  home  thrust  which  reduced  Molly  to  the 
verge  of  indignant  tears,  and  would  have  done  much 
towards  antagonizing  her  towards  Gladys  had  not  grati 
fied  pride  at  Arthur's  attentions  to  her,  and  admiration 
of  the  coolness  and  ease  with  which  she  received  them, 
more  than  offset  the  disapproval  of  her  general  person 
ality. 

An  enthusiasm  for  the  ways  of  her  own  land  which 
158 


ARTHUR'S  WOOING 

had  been  generated  by  the  football  game,  launched 
Gladys  happily  upon  the  season's  gayeties. 

"  It  is  not  exactly  an  intellectual  satisfaction,  and 
lacks  in  under-currents,"  she  told  her  aunt.  "  It  is 
just  boys  and  girls  together  having  a  good  time,  but  a 
good  time  we  certainly  have,  and  it  is  all  fresh  and 
frank  and  clean." 

As  an  offset  to  the  younger  element  in  her  niece's 
winter,  Mrs.  Stanwood  made  her  house  a  musical  and 
artistic  centre  as  far  as  it  is  possible  to  do  in  this  time 
and  place,  and  Gladys  was  content  as  she  had  not  be 
lieved  it  possible  to  be  in  her  own  city  when  she  had 
surveyed  it  from  the  European  point  of  view. 

"I  am  still  young  enough  to  enjoy  a  romp,"  she  told 
herself  happily,  as  though  she  had  made  a  discovery ; 
for  she  knew  that  on  the  night  following  Dick's  dis 
grace  she  had  taken  leave  of  her  first  girlhood.  To 
him  had  gone  the  best  of  her  youth's  high  faith,  and 
he  had  betrayed  it. 

"  I  came  so  near  to  loving  him.  A  little  more,  and  I 
would  have  given  up  all  and  gone  with  him  down  into 
the  ugly  and  sordid  places  to  help  the  people ;  and  then 
—  he  cheated  at  a  game  of  cards  !  He  cheated,  and  ran 
away  to  leave  another  man  to  take  the  blame  !  I  gave 
him  the  best  I  had,  except  love,  and  I  almost  gave  him 
that.  Some  day  I  suppose  he  will  become  a  demagogue 
of  the  people,  a  leader  of  the  raw,  disorderly  masses, 
perhaps  even  a  prisoner." 

She  repeated  these  things  to  herself  during  the  un 
welcome  moments  when  Dick's  image  intruded  itself 

159 


THE   EVASION 

upon  her ;  and  when  she  thought  of  them  she  felt  old, 
and  knew  that  with  her  faith  in  him  other  things  had 
gone  out  of  her  life  never  to  return,  while  in  their  place 
was  the  realization  of  possible  suffering,  black  and 
hopeless,  that  might  be  waiting  for  her  beyond  the  shel 
ter  of  her  present  existence. 

So  for  this  winter  she  rejoiced  consciously  in  being 
light-hearted,  which  is  rare,  for  deliberate  consciousness 
of  a  mental  condition  is  apt  to  destroy  it. 

Gladys  was  not  above  enjoying  attention  from  the 
most  sought-after  man  in  the  city,  and  it  was  many 
months  since  her  aunt  had  listened  to  any  ethical  pro 
tests  against  allowing  men  to  love  her. 

What  she  called  Arthur's  habit  of  devotion  had  kept 
her  in  some  doubt  as  to  his  actual  feeling,  and  she  was 
not  satisfied  till  convinced  that  love  for  her  was  the 
first  serious  passion  of  his  life.  After  this  discovery 
she  became  remorseful,  and  wondered  what  she  should 
do  with  him;  though  this  last  difficulty  was  not  one 
that  troubled  her  seriously  or  often. 

"  You  do  not  care  for  me  at  all,"  he  said  one  even 
ing,  while  they  "  sat  out "  the  two  sets  of  dances  that 
he  had  begged  from  her. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  she  answered,  "  I  do  care ;  but  not  in 
the  way  you  want." 

"Any  other  way  is  nothing."  He  sat  opposite  to 
her  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  looking  down 
at  the  fan  he  held,  shut  and  opened  it  slowly.  "  Any 
other  way  is  nothing,"  he  repeated,  in  a  low,  halting 
voice.  "  Don't  you  think  you  can  ever  love  me  ?  " 

160 


ARTHUR'S  WOOING 

"  I  am  fond  of  you,  more  fond  of  you  than  of  any 
man  I  know,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  gently.  "  But 
I  shall  never  love  you." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  still  he  did  not  look  up. 

"  What  is  there  you  do  not  like  about  me  ? "  he 
asked  finally. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  do  not  like  about  you." 

"  Then  why  "  - 

"  Oh,  please,  please,  Arthur,  do  not  let  us  talk  any 
more  about  it." 

"  That  is  asking  too  much,"  he  said,  with  some  bit 
terness.  "  A  fellow  is  crazy  about  a  girl.  He  dreams 
of  her  all  night,  and  thinks  of  her  all  day,  and  is  so 
wretched  he  hates  life  and  himself  and  everybody  else 
during  every  moment  he  is  not  with  her,  and  then  she 
tells  him  not  to  talk  to  her  about  it." 

"  But  does  any  good  come  from  talking  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  must  win  you.  I  cannot  bear  living  if  I  don't," 
he  said,  and  as  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face  they  shone 
heavy  and  dark  through  a  man's  difficult  tears.  "I 
must  win  you."  He  crushed  her  fan  between  his  hands 
as  he  spoke.  Many  men  had  looked  at  her  so  since 
the  first  one,  and  suddenly  a  wave  of  utter  weariness 
swept  over  her. 

She  told  herself  she  was  tired  of  seeing  love  in 
men's  eyes.  It  amounted  to  so  little,  and  it  was  all 
so  much  alike  —  since  that  first  love.  She  pressed 
the  back  of  her  clasped  hands  to  her  eyes.  Arthur 
was  talking  again,  but  she  did  not  hear.  What  was 
life  for?  she  asked  herself.  What  was  left  in  life 

161 


THE   EVASION 

for  a  woman  who  was  tired  of  seeing  love  in  men's 
eyes  ? 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  that  I  do  not  do  ? " 
she  heard  him  saying,  and  then  she  looked  at  him  to 
find  that  her  fan  was  in  danger  of  destruction  at  his 
hands.  She  bent  over  and  rescued  it  quietly. 

"  It  is  very  valuable,"  she  explained. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  would  like  me  to  do  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

" I  should  like  you  to  do  something" 

"Something?"  he  repeated  vaguely. 

"  Yes.  I  don't  care  what  it  is,  provided  you  do  some 
thing,  even  if  it  is  only  going  into  a  broker's  office  and 
cleaning  out  bottles." 

"  But  they  do  not  have  bottles  in  brokers'  offices. 
At  least,  they  ought  not  to  have  them,"  he  answered, 
with  an  unwilling  smile. 

"Well,  wastebaskets  then.  They  must  have  waste- 
baskets.  I  know  you  do  not  need  to  work  for  your 
living,  but  you  ought  to  work  for  your  character." 

"  I  see.    You  want  me  to  go  into  business." 

"  I  want  you  to  want  to  go  into  business." 

"  I  will  begin  to-morrow !  "  he  cried  enthusiastically, 
springing  to  his  feet. 

"  But  you  don't  understand,"  she  protested.  "  I  do 
not  want  you  to  do  it  for  me." 

"  I  cannot  pretend  I  am  doing  it  for  any  one  else. 
But  I  know  what  you  mean,  and  you  need  n't  think  I 
take  it  that  you  are  making  my  work  a  condition  of 

162 


ARTHUR'S  WOOING 

your  loving  me.  Only  I  shall  feel  that  I  am  pleasing 
you.  You  did  mean  that  it  would  please  you?"  he 
asked  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  Arthur,  but "  - 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  right.  It 's  enough  to  give  all  my 
time  just  to  pleasing  you.  And  I  shall  keep  on  hop 
ing  for  the  best.  I  think  it  will  all  come  right  in  the 
end." 

His  buoyant  temperament  asserted  itself  triumph 
antly  at  the  new  prospect,  and  his  face  was  radiant  as 
he  offered  her  his  arm. 

"  We  must  have  this  waltz,"  he  said.  "  Who  knows 
that  it  will  not  be  my  last,  if  I  am  to  buckle  down  to 
cleaning  wastebaskets  for  my  character  —  and  you  !  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   MEETING    AT  MIDNIGHT 


O 


'N  this  occasion  Arthur  was  as  good  as  his  word. 
It  was  several  days  before  Gladys  heard  from  him, 
and  then  late  one  afternoon  he  came  to  say  that  he 
had  taken  a  position  in  a  prominent  note  broker's 
office,  and  would  be  at  work  there  daily  from  nine 
until  six  o'clock. 

"  What  is  a  note  broker  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  As  near  as  I  can  make  it,  he  stands  between  the 
people  who  borrow  and  the  people  who  lend;  he  se 
cures  collateral "  — 

"  That  is  enough,"  she  interrupted  quickly.  "  Col 
lateral  is  a  dreadful  word,  and  I  am  sure  that  I  could 
never  understand  anything  about  it.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  in  the  office?" 

"  I  shall  know  more  in  a  few  days.  I  begin  to-mor 
row.  Are  you  glad  ?  "  he  asked.  There  was  wistful- 
ness  in  his  eyes  and  voice  as  he  stood  above  her  with 
his  back  to  the  fire,  and  put  his  question. 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  glad,"  she  assured  him  warmly. 
"  I  think  it  will  make  a  man  of  you,  Arthur,  and  it 
is  n't  manly  to  be  always  leading  cotillions  and  giving 
dinners  and  talking  to  pretty  women." 

164 


A  MEETING  AT  MIDNIGHT 

"  I  have  not  had  much  to  say  to  more  than  one  of 
them  all  winter,"  he  said. 

So  Arthur  went  to  work,  and  with  the  thought  of 
Gladys  in  his  heart  he  worked  most  faithfully,  often 
sacrificing  late  hours  at  night  for  early  ones  in  the 
morning. 

Leaving  a  dance  early,  he  could  not  take  a  partner 
for  the  cotillion,  and  evening  after  evening  stood  among 
the  ballroom  derelicts,  those  partnerless  men  who  block 
the  doorways,  while  he  waited  for  the  one  hour  de 
voted  to  supper,  which  he  always  took  with  Gladys. 

Seeing  him  pale  from  forced  work,  seeing  the  look 
in  his  eyes  that  followed  her  constantly,  and  the  radi 
ance  of  the  smile  that  met  hers,  Gladys  was  touched. 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  Arthur,"  she  told  her  aunt.  "  I 
do  not  see  how  any  one  could  help  being  so,  and  I  wish 
—  oh,  I  wish  that  I  could  say  yes." 

"  Cannot  you,  cherie  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why  not  ?   He  seems  to  have  everything." 

"  I  know.    But  I  simply  cannot,  that  is  all." 

"  Then  do  you  think  it  quite  fair  " 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Edith  !  This  from  you  !  "  Gladys  rallied 
her  gayly.  "  Must  I  explain  things  to  you  in  your 
own  words  ?  '  My  dear,  a  man's  love  is  the  least  of 
things  to  worry  about.'  Do  you  remember  telling  me 
that  long  ago  ?  I  have  found  out  that  it  is  true.  I  am 
making  a  man  of  Arthur  by  putting  him  to  work,  and 
by  the  time  he  is  a  man  he  will  be  ready  to  love  some 
one  else,  who  will  benefit  by  my  efforts." 

165 


THE   EVASION 

Arthur  was  too  ingenuous  to  hide  his  condition,  and 
it  was  known  and  commented  on  by  his  world. 

"  There  are  so  many  men  who  can  grub  in  a  State 
Street  office ;  there  is  not  another  man  in  Boston  who 
can  be  so  decorative  and  useful  in  a  ballroom.  Why 
couldn't  you  have  left  him  to  us,  Miss  Lawrence?" 
an  older  man  asked  one  evening,  just  after  Arthur  had 
left  her  at  the  entrance  of  a  grove  of  evergreens,  where 
he  had  brought  her  ices  and  talked  of  love. 

The  girl's  social  triumph  seemed  at  its  zenith  that 
night.  When  the  cotillion  ended,  at  four,  two  of  the 
ushers  helped  in  carrying  her  flowers  and  favors  to 
the  carriage,  and  at  her  own  door  the  footman  lifted 
an  armload  of  them  into  the  house. 

She  found  the  hall  less  faintly  lighted  than  was 
usual  at  that  hour,  and  the  still  fragrant  odor  of  cigar 
smoke  pervaded  the  atmosphere.  "  Uncle  Willie  must 
have  had  a  late  visitor,"  she  thought,  dropping  into 
one  of  the  big  armchairs  that  was  drawn  close  to  a 
smouldering  fire. 

Her  fur-lined  evening  cloak  slipped  from  her  shoul 
ders,  making  a  nest  from  which  her  little  person,  that 
was  incased  in  pale  satin  and  silver,  gleamed  dimly 
through  the  gloom.  She  nestled  back  with  a  sigh  of 
relaxed  content,  and  the  warm,  still  solitude  of  the 
house  enveloped  her  like  a  benign -presence.  By  the 
faint  glow  of  the  fire  lay  her  flowers  and  cotillion 
favors  in  a  confused,  gayly  colored  profusion,  and  she 
smiled  drowsily  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  them.  They  sig 
nified  the  triumph  of  her  personal  charm.  They  were 

166 


A  MEETING  AT   MIDNIGHT 

a  symbol  of  the  adulation,  the  brilliant  ease  and  lux 
ury,  of  her  present  existence.  Her  thoughts  roamed 
idly  and  happily  through  the  events  of  the  evening  as 
well  as  of  evenings  past  and  to  come,  and  the  conscious 
ness  of  Arthur's  chivalrous  devotion  drifted  through 
these  thoughts  like  a  fragrance,  for  she  had  suffered 
no  recurrence  of  the  temporary  fatigue  caused  by  see 
ing  love  in  a  man's  eyes.  His  roses  lay  at  her  breast, 
and  detaching  one  of  them  she  passed  it  over  her 
cheek,  which  was  still  warm  from  dancing;  but  she 
was  very  sleepy,  and  almost  immediately  turned  her 
head,  pillowing  it  upon  her  hand.  In  another  moment 
she  would  have  been  asleep,  but  a  sudden  noise  broke 
the  silence.  At  first  she  wondered  if  she  could  have 
been  dreaming,  and  then  she  heard  it  again,  —  the 
moving  of  a  chair  in  the  library  above  her,  followed 
by  muffled  footsteps  on  heavily  carpeted  floors.  It 
was  not  her  uncle's  footstep,  and  there  should  be  no 
other  man  in  the  house.  Kecalling  every  burglar  story 
she  had  ever  heard,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  with  the 
intention  of  slipping  into  the  telephone-room  which 
was  near  at  hand,  and  where,  after  securely  locking 
the  door,  she  could  call  the  police.  But  it  was  too 
late.  A  man  was  coming  down  the  shadowy  stair 
case,  and,  while  she  could  only  stand  motionless,  he 
advanced  toward  her  through  the  hall.  She  was  ex 
ceedingly  frightened,  but  she  was  even  more  angry, 
and  her  hand  was  on  the  bell  when  he  paused  sud 
denly  and  saw  her. 
The  man  was  Dick. 

167 


THE   EVASION 

Her  heart  seemed  to  stop,  while,  breathless  and  wide- 
eyed,  she  looked  at  him.  In  the  dim  light  he  appeared 
unsubstantial,  pale,  his  heavy  features  more  prominent, 
his  eyes  more  deeply  set  than  when  she  had  last  seen 
him ;  but  with  his  face  before  her  a  wave  of  memo 
ries  swept  her  mercilessly.  She  could  almost  have  cried 
aloud  with  the  pain  of  it,  during  what  seemed  the 
timeless  period  in  which  they  faced  each  other,  motion 
less  and  silent. 

And  then,  without  a  word,  he  passed  into  the  dark 
ness  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall.  There  was  an  inrush 
of  cold  air  as  he  opened  the  front  door,  and  she  heard 
it  close  behind  him.  She  did  not  think  that  she  had 
seen  a  vision,  or  dreamed  a  dream,  but  knew  clearly 
that  Dick  Copeland  in  the  flesh  had  passed  by  her, 
and  gone  again  into  the  night.  It  was  then  that  a  sus 
picion  came  to  her,  —  a  suspicion  hideous,  grotesque, 
wounding  as  a  blow. 

There  was  another  sound  in  the  house,  the  grating 
of  another  chair  on  the  library  hearthstone,  and  a  step, 
unmistakably  her  uncle's  this  time,  in  the  hallway 
above.  In  another  moment,  she  had  passed  up  the  wide 
stairway,  and  was  at  his  side. 

"  You  knew  he  was  here,  Uncle  Willie  ?  Then  you 
knew  he  was  here  ?  "  she  whispered  breathlessly. 

"  My  dear !    how  pale  you  are !  " 

"But  Dick  Copeland  —  you  knew  he  was  in  the 
house  ?  He  was  visiting  you  ?  " 

"  He  passed  the  evening  with  me,"  answered  Mr. 
Stanwood,  with  an  unusual  gravity  on  his  heavy  face. 

168 


A  MEETING   AT  MIDNIGHT 

"Oh!  I  thought  — I  thought"  — She  felt  an  im 
pulse  to  hysterical  laughter  which  was  controlled  with 
difficulty.  "  Why  did  he  come  here  ?  " 

"  He  is  working  in  one  of  my  mills,  and  wished  to 
speak  to  me  of  a  threatened  strike.  I  saw  him  by  acci 
dent  last  week,  and  asked  him  to  visit  me  here." 

He  paused  uneasily,  evidently  wishing  to  say  some 
thing  more,  and  was  still  struggling  with  the  impulse 
when  his  niece  mounted  the  stairway  leading  to  her 
room,  and  her  threatened  disappearance  in  the  gloom 
above  demanded  desperate  measures. 

"  Gladys,"  he  called,  "  Gladys,  I  want  to  speak  to 
you,  my  dear." 

She  hesitated,  and  leaned  over  the  banisters  to 
listen.  Poised  in  her  gleaming  dress  between  the 
shadows  above  and  the  uncertain  light  beneath,  with 
her  pale  face,  and  her  eyes  with  the  desperate  laughter 
in  them,  she  appeared  as  some  bright  but  unhappy 
sprite. 

"  What  is  it,  Uncle  Willie  ?  " 

At  this  point,  Mr.  Stanwood  made  a  superhuman 
effort  to  overcome  his  shyness. 

"  Did  you  care  about  Copeland  enough  to  marry  him 
before  "  — 

Gladys  had  started  visibly  under  the  bluntness  of  his 
attack. 

"  No,  I  did  not,"  she  answered  hastily.  "  No  !  no  ! 
How  can  you  ask  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  know,"  he  answered,  fingering  his  collar 
uneasily.  "  Sometimes  a  girl  does  not  answer  quite  — 

169 


THE   EVASION 

truly  —  when  she  is  questioned  on  these  subjects  —  at 
least,  so  I  have  been  told.  Sometimes  they  deceive 
themselves  as  well  as  others.  Are  you  quite  sure,  my 
dear,  that  you  are  not  deceiving  yourself,  or  me,  upon 
this  subject  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  one  of  the  women  who  deceive  myself,  or 
others." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not !  Of  course  not !  "  he  assured 
her  hastily.  "  I  was  foolish  to  think  it,  only  there  are 
some  things  one  must  be  very  sure  of —  very  sure  in 
deed.  There  is  one  more  question  I  should  like  to  ask 
you"- 

"  I  hope  it  is  not  a  long  one,  Uncle  Willie,  because 
I  am  very  sleepy,"  she  said,  with  over-brilliant,  sleep 
less  eyes.  "  I  am  very  sleepy,  and  it  must  be  nearly 
day." 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  Arthur  ?"  asked  her  uncle. 

"  Am  I  going  to  marry  Arthur ! "  she  repeated 
blankly.  "  Am  I  going  to  marry  Arthur !  I  think  the 
world  is  mad  —  mad  as  the  March  hare's  tea-party  — 
to-night.  No,  I  am  not  going  to  marry  Arthur.  No  !  A 
thousand  times  no  !  Shall  I  say  it  again  ?  Do  you 
think  I  am  still  deceiving  myself  and  you  ?  I  am  not 
going  to  marry  Arthur.  I  was  not  going  to  marry  — 
Dick  Copeland,  and  I  thank  God  —  I  thank  God  for 
that !  And  now  I  hope  you  are  satisfied,  Uncle  Willie, 
for  if  you  ask  me  one  more  question  I  believe  that  I 
shall  sit  down  on  the  stairs  and  have  hysterics." 


CHAPTER  VII 

ANOTHER    MEETING 

JL  DON'T  suppose  you  have  any  real  objection  to 
meeting  Richard  Copeland,  have  you  ?  " 

Gladys  was  taking  afternoon  tea  with  a  friend  when 
the  question  was  put  to  her. 

"  You  know  there  are  queer  stories  about  him," 
whispered  her  hostess. 

"  I  know,"  answered  Gladys,  stirring  her  tea. 

She  was  dressed  in  lilac  velvet  with  a  gray  fur  collar 
that  had  slipped  from  her  shoulders,  and  there  were 
fresh  Parma  violets  in  the  lace  at  her  breast.  Her  per 
sonality,  rare,  exquisite,  and  vivid,  was  as  usual  the 
controlling  force  in  the  room  ;  and  she  felt  sufficiently 
well-poised  on  a  wave  of  social  ascendency  to  bear 
with  the  mention  of  Dick,  and,  if  necessary,  with  his 
presence. 

The  other  night,  unsupported  by  companionship  or 
the  excitement  of  adulation  and  conquest,  in  the  dark 
ness  wherein  there  was  no  sound  but  the  voices  of  her 
own  memory,  she  had  been  caught  defenseless. 

"  How  does  he  happen  to  be  coming  here  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  Well,  you  know  he  was  Phil's  great  friend  all 
through  college,  and  he  never  would  believe  one  single 

171 


THE   EVASION 

word  against  him.  So  since  his  accident  —  Phil's  ac 
cident,  I  mean  —  Mr.  Copeland  has  been  here  to  see 
him  often,  and  since  the  big  strikes  are  on  he  has  come 
every  day  because,  you  see,  he  is  out  of  work.  Does  n't 
it  seem  simply  too  absurd  for  words  that  any  one  with 
all  that  money  should  work  in  a  mill !  " 

Gladys's  hostess,  Mary  Whiteside,  was  a  colorless 
little  girl  with  amiable  and  tremulous  ideas.  Her 
flickering  conversation  bristled  with  superlatives  that 
seemed  an  unconscious  defense  against  her  lack  of  per 
sonal  emphasis. 

"  You  know  he  has  heaps  and  heaps  of  money,  and 
it  seems  as  if  he  must  be  terribly  mean  to  work  for  a 
dollar  or  two  a  day,  but  Phil  says  " 

"  Do  you  expect  him  here,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  don't  mind,"  said  Mary  almost 
tearfully.  "  Because,  you  see,  the  doctor  is  here  now, 
and  Phil  said  that  if  Mr.  Copeland  came  before  he  went, 
I  was  to  ask  him  —  ask  Mr.  Copeland,  I  mean  —  in 
here  and  give  him  some  tea,  and  I  don't  dare  not  to. 
The  other  people  are  strangers,  and  probably  never 
heard  of  him.  But  if  you  won't  speak  to  him  — 
What  shall  I  do?" 

"  I  should  be  perfectly  willing  to  speak  to  him,  only 
I  am  not  likely  to  have  a  chance,  for  it  is  time  I  went 
home,"  said  Gladys,  rising  as  she  spoke,  but  Mary  held 
her  by  the  sleeve. 

"  Don't  go.  Don't  leave  me  to  do  it  all  alone,"  she 
entreated.  "  I  can't  talk  to  strange  men,  and  Mr. 
Copeland  makes  me  nervous  because  I  never  know 

172 


ANOTHER  MEETING 

what  I  think  about  him.  Besides,  he  is  here  now.  I 
hear  him  in  the  hall  with  mamma." 

Gladys  heard  him  also,  and,  with  an  impulse  she 
could  not  have  analyzed,  she  sat  down  again. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Mrs.  Whiteside,  but  I  am 
hardly  dressed  for  an  afternoon  tea."  His  vibrant  and 
compelling  voice  was  speaking  just  beyond  the  portieres, 
and  Gladys  drew  in  her  breath  sharply,  for  it  was  the 
voice  of  the  man  she  had  honored  above  all  other  men, 
of  the  man  she  had  nearly  loved ;  and  it  held  memo 
ries  of  the  highly  wrought,  expectant  hours  of  her  girl 
hood. 

"  This  is  not  an  afternoon  tea,"  protested  Mrs. 
Whiteside,  still  invisible,  "and  Mary  is  expecting 
you." 

"  It  is  only  the  loss  of  the  man  I  thought  he  was 
that  hurts,"  Gladys  assured  herself.  "  He  is  deserving 
only  of  contempt." 

"  No  one  is  here  but  one  or  two  of  Mary's  Philadel 
phia  friends,  and  Miss  Lawrence,"  continued  Mrs. 
Whiteside. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  He  was  born  a  gentleman,  so  perhaps  he  will  not 
come  in  now,"  Gladys  told  herself ;  but  the  next  mo 
ment  Dick  had  followed  his  hostess  into  the  room. 
Mary  introduced  him  to  her  friends  with  a  more  than 
usually  palpitating  manner,  and  then  turned  to  Gladys 
with  a  look  that  confessed  her  inability  to  deal  with 
the  social  emergency,  and  implored  aid.  The  instinct  to 
save  an  awkward  situation  is  a  point  of  honor  with  the 

173 


THE  EVASION 

woman  of  the  world,  and  Gladys  responded  to  the  de 
mand  of  the  moment. 

"  I  think  you  must  have  met  Mr.  Copeland,"  said 
Mary  timidly,  after  which  she  felt  what  she  described 
later  as  a  desire  for  the  ground  to  open  and  swallow 
her  up,  for  she  remembered  a  report  to  the  effect 
that  Miss  Lawrence  and  Richard  Copeland  had  been 
engaged  just  before  he  fell  into  disgrace  and  disap 
peared. 

But  Gladys  began  to  speak  easily  in  answer  to  her 
introduction,  and  Mary's  suspicions  were  calmed. 

"  Why,  yes,  Mr.  Copeland  and  I  met  some  years  ago," 
Gladys  was  saying,  in  her  lightest  and  easiest  manner, 
"  and  curiously  enough  "  —  she  had  been  looking  at 
some  distant  spot  over  Dick's  shoulder,  and  now  turned 
from  him  to  address  the  man  on  her  right  —  "  curiously 
enough,  we  met  about  a  month  ago,  one  night  after  I 
came  home  from  a  dance.  He  had  been  spending  the 
evening  with  my  uncle,  but  I  did  not  know  that,  and 
when  he  came  through  the  hall "  —  she  paused  to  give  a 
light  touch  of  arrangement  to  the  flowers  at  her  breast 
—  "I  was  afraid,  —  because  when  I  saw  him  I  thought 
he  must  be  a  thief,"  she  added  deliberately,  with  her 
delicate  smile. 

Dick  received  the  insult  without  a  change  in  the 
impassivity  of  his  face,  nor  was  there  a  trace  of  flinch 
ing  or  discomposure  in  his  attitude.  Mary,  who  was 
one  of  the  three  who  understood  the  hidden  allusion, 
laughed  hysterically. 

"  How  perfectly  absurd ! "  she  cried. 
174 


ANOTHER  MEETING 

"  It  was  perfectly  natural,"  said  Dick,  in  a  tone  as 
deliberate  as  Gladys's  own. 

The  tone  startled  her.  How  had  he  dared  ?  For 
one  brief,  unwilling  instant  she  looked  at  him,  realizing 
that  he  seemed  to  have  grown  ten  years  older,  and  was 
rough  and  strong  and  stern  as  she  had  not  remembered 
him.  Then  the  hand,  knotted  and  scarred,  that  held  his 
hat  arrested  her  attention.  She  had  seen  such  hands  on 
the  man  who  drove  her  father's  plough.  An  invisible 
force  seemed  to  drag  her  eyes  upward  till  they  met  his, 
and  there  they  found  an  incredible  thing,  for  Dick  was 
looking  at  her  with  something  akin  to  grave  scorn. 

Had  this  man,  who  was  a  proven  scoundrel,  who  had 
fled  from  honorable  society,  and  found  refuge  among 
the  raw  and  crude  masses  of  those  who  labor,  come  back 
to  her  world  in  his  rough  clothes,  bearing  on  his  person 
the  marks  of  a  brutalizing  toil,  to  stand  in  her  presence 
unashamed  and  look  at  her  with  scorn  in  his  eyes  ? 

She  told  herself  that  she  must  be  mad  or  dreaming ; 
but  she  knew  that  she  was  neither,  and  that  Dick  Cope- 
land,  whom  all  honorable  men  must  despise,  stood  be 
fore  her  a  more  vital  and  dominating  fact  than  any  that 
had  come  into  her  life. 

"  Won't  you  have  a  cup  of  tea,  Mr.  Copeland  ?  "  she 
heard  Mary  ask,  and  her  consciousness  underwent  a 
swift  and  mechanical  readjustment  to  the  demands  of 
the  moment. 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Dick;  "I  will."  He  merci 
fully  moved  away  from  her,  and  the  man  on  her  right 
claimed  her  attention. 

175 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  on  with  what  you  were  telling 
us  before  Mr.  Copeland  came  in,"  he  said. 

"  What  was  I  telling  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  about  those  people  you  met  in  Rome,  those 
popes  and  kings,  and  the  descendants  of  the  Guelphs 
and  Ghibellines." 

"  I  only  met  one  pope  and  one  king,"  said  Gladys. 
"  Mary,  will  you  give  me  another  cup  of  tea  ?   As  for 
those  descendants  of  the  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines  "- 
she  gave  a  graceful  foreign  gesture  of  disparagement, 
—  "  my  sister  would  call  them  effete,"  she  added. 

"  All  the  same,  Gladys,  every  one  thought  you  were 
going  to  marry  one  of  them,"  said  Mary,  from  the  tea- 
table. 

"  I  am  very  tired  of  hearing  about  being  married," 
said  Gladys.  "  Why  should  a  woman  marry  ?  What 
can  marriage  give  her  that  she  has  not  already  ?  Save 
a  husband,  and  that  would  be  such  a  doubtful  gift." 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Miss  Lawrence  !  " 

"  You  are  not  qualified  to  say  anything,  Mr.  Kings- 
ley,  because  you  never  had  a  husband,  and  never  will 
have  one.  The  nearest  you  can  ever  come  to  a  husband 
is  being  one,  in  which  case  you  would  be  less  than  ever 
entitled  to  judge  of  him." 

Gladys  felt  that  she  was  breathing  as  though  she 
had  been  running  hard. 

"  Miss  Lawrence's  tea  is  ready.  Will  you  take  it  to 
her  ?  "  said  Mary,  and  Dick  approached  Gladys  again, 
carrying  teacup  and  sugar  bowl. 

"I  wish  I  could    think  it  was  a  nightmare,"    she 
176 


ANOTHER  MEETING 

thought.  On  taking  the  cup  from  his  coarsened  fingers 
her  hand  shook  so  that  some  of  the  tea  spilled  into  the 
saucer. 

"  One  lump  or  two  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  None,  thank  you,"  she  answered,  putting  her  cup 
hastily  on  the  table. 

"  After  all,  every  girl  must  marry  sometime,"  con 
tinued  Mr.  Kingsley. 

"Why?"  asked  Gladys. 

"  Oh,  well,  because  —  why,  you  would  find  life  so 
beastly  dull  without  it.  Particularly  if  you  live  in 
Boston,  where  most  single  women  go  out  of  society  after 
their  second  year,  and  take  to  kindergarten  or  discus 
sion  clubs." 

"  But  one  could  get  used  to  discussion  clubs  just  as 
one  does  to  Boston  east  winds  and  baked  beans.  In 
fact,  I  have  already  begun  to  get  used  to  them.  I  went 
to  an  Ibsen  drama  the  other  day,  and  discussed  it  at  a 
lunch  club  which  exists  for  the  sole  purpose  of  en 
abling  people  to  say  what  they  think,  and  why  they 
think  it." 

"  By  Jove,  Miss  Lawrence  !  I  would  not  have 
thought  it  of  you." 

"  But  you  see,  I  am  already  at  the  end  of  my  first 
season." 

By  this  time  Gladys  felt  sufficiently  composed  to 
hold  her  teacup. 

"  After  all,  I  am  going  to  ask  Mr.  Copeland  to  give 
me  some  sugar,"  she  said,  to  prove  that  she  was  her 
own  mistress  again. 

177 


THE   EVASION 

He  was  standing  at  no  great  distance,  with  change 
less  eyes  on  her  face,  and  he  handed  her  the  sugar  as 
she  spoke.  This  time  her  hand  did  not  shake. 

"  I  am  already  at  the  end  of  my  first  season,"  she 
continued,  "  so  I  thought  I  must  begin  to  educate  my 
self  by  hearing  an  Ibsen  play." 

"  What  did  you  make  of  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  she  said.  "  There  was  a  man  in  it  who 
built  nurseries  for  the  children  of  men.  If  you  ask  me 
why  he  built  nurseries,  I  cannot  tell  you,  unless  it  was 
because  there  were  no  children  to  occupy  them.  He 
also  built  high  towers,  for  no  appreciable  reason  but 
because  he  was  afraid  to  climb  them.  I  made  nothing 
of  it  — nothing  at  all." 

At  this  point  Dick  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"  Do  you  think  the  childless  never  build  nurseries, 
and  that  men  have  never  reached  for  heights  beyond 
their  grasp  ?  "  he  asked  slowly,  in  his  grave  voice. 

Gladys  did  not  lift  her  head,  and  she  seemed  to  hear 
more  than  he  had  spoken,  though  she  could  not  have 
told  what  it  was.  A  little  pause  followed ;  then  she  rose. 

"  I  must  go,  Mary,"  she  said,  "  it  is  late." 

"  But  your  carriage  has  not  been  announced." 

"  When  it  comes,  say  that  I  have  gone.  Good-by, 
Mr.  Kingsley,  though  that  is  not  exactly  the  word,  for 
we  shall  probably  meet  about  midnight  at  the  Allisons'. 
Good-by." 

Dick  Copeland  was  vaguely  included  in  a  general 
farewell,  and  Gladys  left  the  room.  Mary  followed 
her  into  the  hall. 

178 


ANOTHER  MEETING 

"  I  never  can  thank  you  enough  for  staying,"  she 
said,  helping  her  into  her  coat.  "  And  the  worst  is 
over,  for  I  think  the  doctor  must  come  down  directly." 

"  But  I  said  a  hateful  thing,  Mary." 

"  You  mean  about  —  about  the  thief." 

"  Don't.  The  word  hurts.  It  was  a  hateful  thing.  I 
wonder  why  I  said  it.  It  was  rude  to  you  and  brutal 
and  unwomanly,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  thought  so. 
The  only  comfort  about  that  is  that  it  cannot  possibly 
matter  what  he  thought  or  looked.  Where  is  my  muff? 
Can't  you  find  it  ?  No,  I  cannot  stay  and  talk  things 
over.  There  is  nothing  to  talk  over,  and  I  want  to  go 
home." 

The  portieres  separated  again,  and  Dick  came  into 
the  hall.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Whiteside,  but  did 
I  understand  Miss  Lawrence  to  say  that  she  was  going 
to  walk  home  alone  ?  " 

"I  cannot  make  her  wait  for  the  carriage,"  said 
Mary. 

"  You  must  not  go  alone,"  he  continued,  addressing 
Gladys  directly.  "  The  streets  are  unsafe  at  this  hour. 
Unemployed  men  are  about,  and  a  woman  was  sand 
bagged  near  a  back  alley  only  last  night." 

Gladys  lifted  her  eyebrows  as  she  fastened  the  fur 
at  her  throat. 

"lam  not  afraid,"  she  said.  " Good-night,  Mary," 
and  she  passed  swiftly  from  the  house. 

"  Is  it  really  and  truly  unsafe  ?  "  asked  Mary  tremu 
lously.  "  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  Gladys  is  so  —  so  " — 

"  Phil  is  not  ready  to  see  me  yet,"  interrupted  Dick, 
179 


THE   EVASION 

picking  up  his  hat.  "I  shall  be  back  in  half  an 
hour." 

Gladys  walked  rapidly,  forgetful  of  unemployed  men 
and  the  possible  sandbaggers,  though  the  streets  were 
lonely  and  empty,  as  it  is  characteristic  of  Boston's 
fashionable  quarter  to  be. 

"  He  was  trying  to  make  an  excuse  to  walk  home 
with  me,"  she  told  herself.  "  He  is  bold  and  unashamed. 
Everything  I  find  out  about  him  seems  to  make  it  worse. 
He  deserved  what  I  said,  and  yet  he  looked  at  me  as 
though  he  were  ashamed  for  me  rather  than  for  himself. 
And  then  he  dared  —  he  dared  to  try  and  walk  with 
me  !  He  used  to  be  kind.  I  remember  the  time  he  car 
ried  a  hurt  puppy  for  two  miles.  Perhaps  he  would  be 
kind  now ;  dishonest  people  sometimes  are,  and  if  he 
knew  how  it  tortured  me  to  see  him,  if  he  knew  —  I 
wonder  if  he  would  keep  away."  She  looked  at  the 
stars,  unconscious  that  the  tears  lay  on  her  face.  "  It 
seems  as  though  there  could  be  no  good  in  all  this 
world,  in  any  God  or  any  man  —  unless  there  were 
some  good  in  Dick  "  she  whispered. 

At  that  moment  she  passed  one  of  those  back  alleys 
which  split  the  blocks  of  handsome  residences  in  two 
with  a  narrow  space  of  perilous  darkness,  and  from  it 
a  figure  darted  to  her  side. 

"  You  come  along  with  me,"  a  man  said,  in  a  thick 
voice ;  but  before  he  could  touch  her  or  she  could  cry 
out,  another  man  stood  in  his  place.  The  whole  inci 
dent  occurred  so  quickly  and  noiselessly  that  her  pace 
was  hardly  interrupted,  and  she  found  herself  walking 

180 


ANOTHER  MEETING 

as  she  had  walked  before,  with  the  difference  that  Dick 
Copeland  was  at  her  side. 

"  By  what  right  did  you  follow  me  ?  "  she  said,  in  a 
stifled  voice. 

"  It  was  impossible  for  you  to  walk  home  alone." 

"  A  policeman  would  have  come." 

"  Did  a  policeman  ever  come  when  he  was  needed  ?  " 
He  spoke  evenly ;  almost,  it  seemed,  as  though  he  were 
sorry  for  her  and  wanted  to  make  the  situation  as  easy 
as  possible.  Fortunately  for  Gladys,  she  was  not  far 
from  home,  and  a  few  minutes  of  silence  brought  them 
to  her  own  door,  where  he  mounted  the  steps  to  ring 
the  bell  for  her. 

"  I  will  wait  until  the  door  is  answered,"  he  said,  for 
the  house  was  on  the  corner  of  another  alley. 

"  If  he  knew  how  his  presence  tortured  me,  I  wonder 
if  he  would  go  away,"  she  repeated  to  herself. 

But,  forced  to  recognize  that  he  had  done  her  a  real 
service,  she  spoke  to  him  with  uncertain,  unwilling  lips. 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Copeland." 

The  door  opened  at  the  other  end  of  the  vestibule. 
Dick  lifted  his  hat,  and  for  one  instant  as  he  stood 
facing  her  in  the  stream  of  light,  the  control  of  his  well- 
guarded  face  gave  way.  For  one  instant  before  leaving 
he  looked  at  her  with  his  naked  soul  in  his  eyes,  and 
under  the  sadness  and  the  love  and  the  power  of  that 
look  Gladys  turned  suddenly  faint.  She  knew  that  he 
loved  her  as  he  had  years  ago,  and  her  strength  seemed 
to  be  leaving  her  utterly  as  she  passed  up  the  vestibule 
steps  and  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER   VIII 


AFTERMATH 


THAT 


evening,  while  waiting  till  it  was  time  to  dress 
for  the  ball,  Mrs.  Stanwood  reproached  her  niece  for 
not  having  come  home  in  the  carriage. 

"  They  say  it  is  not  safe  for  women  to  walk  alone 
after  dark,  now  that  there  are  so  many  unemployed 
men  about,"  she  said. 

"  I  did  not  walk  alone,"  answered  the  girl,  adding, 
with  a  bitter  and  unhappy  smile,  "  Dick  Copeland 
came  with  me." 

"  Dick  Copeland !  I  am  very  sorry.  You  should  not 
have  been  subjected  to  such  an  annoyance." 

"  It  was  the  most  serious  —  annoyance  —  I  have  ever 
been  subjected  to  in  my  life,"  said  Gladys.  Toying  with 
the  paper-cutter  on  the  table  beside  her  she  looked 
at  it  with  half -open,  brilliant  eyes.  "  But  I  found  out 
certain  things  about  myself  that  it  is  well  to  know," 
she  continued,  with  the  same  smile.  "  He  had  changed 
—  grown  rougher,  sterner,  bigger.  He  was  dressed  — 
Heaven  knows  how.  His  hands  were  the  hands  of  a  day 
laborer  —  rough,  scarred,  and  broken  down  at  the  nails. 
He  was  unashamed.  He  did  not  show  the  delicacy  one 
would  expect  even  from  a  dishonest  man  who  was  born 
a  gentleman  —  and  I  liked  him  !  Think  of  that,  Aunt 

182 


AFTERMATH 

Edith !  I  liked  Dick  Copeland,  the  dishonest  man, 
the  people's  demagogue !  I  did  not  think  I  was  one  to 
like  that  sort  of  a  person,  did  you  ?  But  you  see,  that 
is  what  I  learned  this  afternoon.  I  knew  that  I  liked 
him  as  soon  as  I  heard  his  voice  outside  of  the  room, 
and  when  he  came  in  I  liked  him  more.  I  liked  the 
things  he  said  and  the  way  he  said  them,  and  all  the 
time  I  despised  him.  What  is  a  woman  to  think  of 
herself  who  feels  like  that  ?  What  is  a  woman  to  think, 
except  that  she  is  utterly  contemptible  ?  " 

"  My  dear  child,  it  is  all  perfectly  natural.  You 
liked  what  you  believed  him  to  be,  and  not  having  seen 
him  since  his  disgrace  you  still  confuse  what  you 
thought  he  was  with  what  he  is.  There  is  nothing  to 
agitate  yourself  about." 

But  Gladys  was  not  listening,  and  suddenly  she 
turned  her  cheek  against  the  back  of  the  chair  with  the 
movement  of  a  child  in  pain.  When  she  spoke  her 
voice  was  low  and  pitiful. 

"  If  you  could  have  seen  his  hands,"  she  said.  "  I  do 
not  see  how  they  can  ever  look  like  a  gentleman's  hands 
again.  There  was  one  scar — he  must  have  had  a  cut 
that  nearly  took  his  thumb  off  to  make  a  scar  like  that. 
I  wonder  if  he  —  if  people  who  are  hurt  have  to  go  on 
working  just  the  same.  I  suppose  they  cannot  afford 
to  stop  just  because  they  are  tired,  or  ill.  Of  course 
this  does  n't  apply  to  him,  because  he  has  thousands  in 
the  bank,  and  can  stop  any  moment  he  chooses.  But 
he  looked  as  though  he  had  worked  hard ;  his  hands 
were  knotted  and  coarse.  I  can't  forget  them.  I  do 

183 


THE   EVASION 

not  feel  as  if  I  could  ever  forget  them.  Not  because 
they  belong  to  —  to  any  one  I  know,  but  because  they 
make  me  think  of  the  millions  of  others  —  of  the  honest 
hands  that  look  like  his.  It  does  n't  seem  fair,  does  it  ? 
It  does  n't  seem  fair  that  part  of  the  world  should  have 
hands  like  his,  while  the  other  part — look  at  mine  !  " 
She  held  her  palm  against  the  light.  "It  is  so  delicate 
the  light  shines  through.  It  might  have  been  nourished 
on  dew  and  flowers.  I  am  ashamed,  and  if  I  were  God 
I  should  be  ashamed  to  have  made  such  a  world.  I 
think  I  will  give  up  luxuries.  It  is  n't  fair  for  one  to 
have  them  if  another  does  n't.  I  think  seeing  Dick 
Copeland's  hands  has  made  a  socialist  of  me.  I  think 
—  Aunt  Edith!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  different  voice, 
"  I  am  talking  like  a  fool !  Why  don't  you  stop 
me  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  a  chance,  cherie.  It  is  time 
the  season  ended,  for  I  think  you  are  tired  and  over 
wrought." 

"  Yes,  that  is  probably  it,"  answered  the  girl,  sud 
denly  grown  pale  and  listless.  "  I  am  tired." 

"  Your  moods  tire  you ;  you  have  so  many  of  them. 
And  I  occasionally  notice  in  you  a  tendency  to  being 
dramatic,  as  to-night,  for  instance.  You  should  avoid 
it  as  much  as  possible,  for  it  will  make  you  old  before 
your  time,  and  is  of  no  use  to  yourself  or  any  one. 
Nothing  that  life  can  bring  is  worth  being  dramatic 
about." 

Gladys  thought  languidly  for  a  while,  and  then  she 
rose. 

184 


AFTEKMATH 

"  It  is  time  to  dress  for  the  ball.  I  am  tired,  but  I 
think  I  shall  go.  There  is  so  much  less  chance  of 
being  dramatic  at  the  dance  than  in  staying  at  home 
and  trying  to  rest." 

A  few  days  after  this  episode  Mr.  Aldrich  made  one 
of  his  monthly  visits  to  Boston,  and  took  tea  with  his 
old  friend ;  though  during  the  winter  each  had  become 
conscious  of  an  intangible  cause  of  irritation  against  the 
other. 

"I  wish  that  you  could  keep  your  ward  where  he 
belongs,"  she  said  on  this  occasion. 

"  It  is  so  very  difficult  to  know  where  that  is,"  said 
Leslie  Aldrich.  "  Where  would  you  suggest  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  suggest  a  drawing-room." 

"  Has  he  been  seen  in  any  lately  ?  I  am  glad  to 
think  he  may  be  coming  to  his  senses." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  related,  in  part,  the  meeting  at  the 
Whitesides',  while  Mr.  Aldrich  listened  attentively. 

"  And  he  annoyed  your  niece  ?  Too  bad  !  too  bad ! 
But  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to  do  anything  about  it. 
I  never  see  the  fellow,  and  if  I  did  I  could  no  more 
prevent  his  handing  Miss  Lawrence  a  cup  of  tea  and 
making  inappropriately  intelligent  remarks,  than  I  can 
his  attempts  to  turn  the  established  order  of  society 
topsy-turvy,  or  his  theories  for  making  himself  uncom 
fortable.  I  have  no  objection  to  theories,  as  such.  I 
have  known  successful  men  who  made  collections  of 
them.  It  amuses  them  as  it  does  your  husband  to  col 
lect  beetles,  and  it  amuses  their  friends  considerably 

185 


THE   EVASION 

more.  A  man  may  hold  as  wayward  and  pretty  an  as 
sortment  of  theories  as  one  can  find  in  a  well-bred  luna 
tic  asylum  without  inconvenience  to  himself,  provided 
he  does  not  live  his  theories.  But  Copeland  lives  his 
and  wants  every  one  else  to  live  them.  He  is  a  practical 
romanticist,  so  to  speak.  He  believes  in  a  working  ideal. 
Que  voulez-vous  ?  "  Leslie  Aldrich  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders  with  a  nervous  gesture  of  irritation.  "  What  can 
one  do  with  a  man  like  that  ?  He  is  one  of  the  star- 
gazers  who  will  trip  over  a  dung  heap,  and  there  is  no 
knowing  where  he  will  bring  up.  It  may  be  in  prison, 
and  then  the  world  will  call  him  a  law-breaker;  or 
he  may  die  in  want  and  neglect,  and  the  world  will 
dub  him  a  fool  and  a  failure.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
may  go  down  to  history  as  a  reformer  and  martyr.  Who 
can  tell  ?  Best  or  worst,  it  will  all  be  a  trick  of  fortune. 
In  the  meantime  I  have  allowed  my  cigar  to  go  out  in 
order  to  talk  about  him,  and  it  annoys  me  exceedingly 
to  have  my  cigar  go  out.  Whichever  way  I  look  at  it, 
the  fellow  annoys  me." 

Striking  a  match  on  the  sole  of  his  boot,  and  com 
forted  by  his  next  smoke  wreath,  Mr.  Aldrich  took  a 
more  cheerful  view  of  the  situation. 

"  After  all,  he  is  very  young,  and  though  youth  is 
the  most  dangerous  of  diseases,  it  is  one  that  is  sure 
to  be  outgrown.  He  may  marry  and  settle  down  in 
his  own  station  before  he  is  thirty." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  held  the  fire-screen  before  her  face, 
and  yawned  slightly. 

"  I  am  tired  of  hearing  about  him,"  she  said. 
186 


AFTERMATH 

Leslie  Aldrich  puffed  silently  at  his  cigar  for  a  few 
moments. 

"  Let  us  then  talk  of  something,  or  some  one,  more 
agreeable,"  he  answered.  "  Let  us  talk  of  Arthur 
Davenport.  It  would  be  quite  impossible  to  forget 
one's  cigar  in  discussing  that  young  man.  He  strikes 
me  as  possessing  unusual  capabilities  for  collapsing 
under  pressure.  How  is  his  suit  progressing  ?  " 

"His  suit?" 

"  My  dear  Edith,  you  should  be  far  too  clever  a 
woman  to  try  evasion  with  me.  However,  I  am  an 
swered.  Your  niece  has  not  yet  accepted  him.  I  met 
her  in  the  hall,"  he  continued.  "We  had  a  few 
words." 

"  How  did  you  think  she  was  looking  ?  " 

Mr.  Aldrich  paused  before  answering.  "I  do  not 
know,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Dear  Leslie,  you  are  growing  positively  oracular." 

"  My  cigar  has  gone  out  again,"  he  remarked.  "  It 
must  be,  in  some  way  or  other,  a  very  poor  cigar." 

"  Try  one  of  Willie's,"  she  suggested. 

"Thank  you,  but  I  can  never  endure  any  brand 
but  my  own." 

He  selected  another  from  a  silver  case  in  his  pocket, 
and  lit  it  carefully. 

"Miss  Gladys  was  very  gay,"  he  continued,  "but 
she  has  lost  the  poise,  careless  and  true  as  a  bird's, 
which  was  hers  three  years  ago.  She  looks  as  though 
life  had  got  hold  of  her  somewhere,  and  I  think  it  pos 
sible  that  life  will  hold  her  pretty  hard  before  she  gets 

187 


THE   EVASION 

through  with  it.    She  will  never  be  happy  with  any 
thing  that  you  can  give,  Edith." 

Mrs.  Stanwood  mused  for  a  while  behind  the  fire 
screen. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  that  you  almost  hate  me,"  she 
said  at  last.  "  Men  sometimes  do  end  by  hating  the 
women  they"  — 

"Exactly,"  he  finished.  "But  I  do  not  hate  you, 
though  I  have  loved  you  long  and  well,  and  because 
of  you  I  stand  to-day  at  the  end  of  my  life  with  utterly 
empty  hands  and  heart." 

"  If  they  are  empty,  it  is  your  own  fault.  What  do 
you  complain  of  ?  " 

"  You  have  ruined  my  life." 

"My  dear  Leslie!  —  that  is  so  exceedingly  fool 
ish." 

"  You  have  ruined  my  life,"  he  continued,  as  quietly 
and  dispassionately  as  though  he  were  discussing  a 
microbe.  "I  was  not  what  you  call  a  high  type  of 
man  in  the  beginning,  but  I  had  some  ability,  and 
I  was,  to  a  certain  degree,  affectionate.  I  could  have 
gone  far  in  the  diplomatic  career,  but  I  gave  it  up 
because  it  did  not  leave  me  at  liberty  to  follow  you. 
I  could  have  married  and  loved  my  wife.  I  do  not  say 
that  I  should  have  been  faithful  to  her,  but  I  should 
have  loved  her — and  my  children.  For  you  I  gave 
up  my  career.  For  you  I  gave  up  the  woman  who 
would  have  been  my  wife,  and  any  possibility  of  better 
things  that  was  in  my  nature!"  A  bitter  intensity 
had  crept  under  the  calm  of  his  manner,  just  as  the 

188 


AFTERMATH 

sluggish  blood  was  creeping  under  his  withered  skin. 
"  Because  of  you  I  am  a  cynical,  useless,  lonely  old 
man  to-day." 

"I  am  sorry,  Leslie,  I  am  sorry,"  she  answered 
softly.  "  You  plucked  the  grapes.  Is  it  my  fault  that 
they  were  poison?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  twisted  smile. 

"Have  you  a  bit  of  heart  tucked  away  anywhere?" 
he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  singularly  girlish  smile. 

"  Is  that  my  fault,  either  ?  "  she  returned.  "  I  gave 
you  what  I  had." 

He  had  risen,  and  stood  looking  down  at  her  with 
his  back  to  the  fireplace. 

"  In  the  meantime,  why  do  you  continue  to  come 
and  see  me  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  suppose  you  have  formed 
the  habit  of  it." 

"  I  think  that  is  it,"  he  admitted.  "  And  then  we 
speak  the  same  language  up  to  a  certain  point."  He 
was  breathing  more  heavily  than  usual,  and  the  blood 
was  still  in  his  face. 

"It  is  n't  always  a  pleasant  habit  these  days,  is  it, 
my  friend  ?  Neither  pleasant  for  you  nor  for  me,"  she 
said  sweetly,  though  she  was  almost  as  angry  as  it  was 
possible  for  her  to  be. 

"  I  have  just  thought  of  another  grudge  against  this 
most  charming  of  women,"  he  said. 

"  And  that  is  —  ?  " 

"  It  is  because  of  you  that  I  have  suffered  a  lifelong 
shame." 

189 


THE   EVASION 

She  rose  with  a  slight  laugh.  Neither  of  them  saw 
Gladys  standing  just  within  the  threshold. 

"Now,  at  last,  you  have  surprised  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Stanwood. 

"  Surprised  you  !  —  You  are  surprised  that  I  should 
speak  to  you  of  feeling  shame  — to  you,  whose  husband 
has  been  my  lifelong  friend  ?  " 

At  that  moment  they  both  saw  Gladys,  and,  more 
than  that,  they  saw  that  she  had  heard,  and  understood. 


CHAPTER   IX 


FLIGHT 


Ti 


HAT  evening  Gladys  received  by  her  aunt's  side  at 
the  entrance  of  the  great  drawing-room,  and  the  next 
morning  she  returned  to  her  old  home.  In  the  recoil 
of  this  intolerable  revelation  she  knew  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  her  to  share  Mrs.  Stanwood's  home,  or 
to  accept  more  of  her  favor  and  kindness. 

It  often  happens  that  the  aliens  of  humanity  are  not 
those  who  sin  from  overmuch  life,  but  those  who  remain 
virtuous  from  too  little ;  and  because  there  was  lawless 
blood  in  the  girl  her  heart  might  have  sought  some 
excuse  for  Mrs.  Stanwood,  had  this  serenely  cold  wo 
man  been  capable  of  a  feeling  sufficiently  vital  to  cause 
her  to  suffer  and  to  dare. 

But  Gladys  had  seen  much  of  the  world  ;  open-eyed, 
fearless,  inviolate,  she  had  passed  through  a  corrupt 
and  decayed  civilization,  and  she  recognized  her  aunt 
as  one  of  those  for  whom  right  and  wrong  hold  no  sig 
nificance,  but  who  are  controlled  by  policy  to  preserve 
the  semblance  of  convention,  and  are  rewarded  there 
fore  with  respect  and  homage. 

She  announced  her  proposed  departure  quietly,  for 
she  did  not  wish  a  quarrel  or  ill  feeling. 

"  I  have  decided  that  I  had  better  go  home,"  she 
191 


THE   EVASION 

told  Mrs.  Stanwood ;  and  for  a  moment  astonishment 
deprived  that  lady  of  speech  ;  but  her  ready  and  supple 
brain  surveyed  the  situation  rapidly,  saw  its  hopeless 
ness,  and  adjusted  itself  to  circumstances. 

"  I  think  you  are  right,  cherie,"  she  said,  after  her 
moment  of  silence.  "  You  have  been  looking  tired  for 
some  time,  and  a  good  rest  in  the  country  is  just  what 
you  need." 

But  Gladys  knew  that  her  aunt  understood. 

In  the  eyes  of  her  world  she  went  home  to  rest ; 
but  it  was  difficult  to  continue  the  deception  with  her 
family. 

"  I  do  not  see  why  you  came  back,  Gladys,"  said 
Miranda  Lawrence ;  "  it  was  evidently  not  because  you 
wanted  to  come." 

"  I  thought  I  had  explained  it,"  answered  the  girl 
with  dreary  patience. 

"  Did  you,  indeed  ?  If  you  thought  that,  you  must 
have  less  intelligence  than  I  ever  gave  you  credit 
for." 

"  I  did  not  feel  like  living  with  Aunt  Edith  any 
longer." 

"  Yet  you  liked  the  life  you  led  with  her,  and  you 
liked  her." 

Gladys  admitted  for  the  hundredth  time  that  both 
of  these  things  were  true. 

She  had  been  sewing  all  the  morning  in  the  mahogany 
fastnesses  of  the  sitting-room,  while  her  aunt  mended 
a  pair  of  Molly's  golf  stockings.  The  spring  rain  was 
gorging  every  water-spout,  streaming  from  the  edge  of 

192 


FLIGHT 

a  colonial  porch,  and  guttering  the  avenue.  Gladys 
was  making  herself  a  dress.  In  her  girlhood  there  had 
been  money  enough  to  employ  a  village  dressmaker ; 
but  during  the  last  months  Professor  Lawrence  had 
lost  property  to  a  serious  extent,  a  circumstance  which 
caused  the  homecoming  of  his  oldest  and  most  extrava 
gant  child  to  be  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  a  financial 
burden. 

"  And  there  was  no  quarrel,"  continued  Miss  Mi 
randa,  "  yet  you  left  her  house  suddenly,  you  have  held 
no  communication  with  her  since,  and  brought  with 
you  nothing  of  either  the  clothes  or  the  presents  she 
had  loaded  you  with  during  the  three  years  since  you 
first  saw  her.  I  never  believed  in  Edith,"  she  added 
firmly. 

"  Aunt  Edith  has  always  been  more  than  generous 
and  kind  to  me,"  said  Gladys.  "And  I  should  be 
with  her  now  but  for  my  own  wish.  I  will  take  any 
blame  there  is.  I  owe  her  the  happiest  years  of  my 
life." 

"  Then  why  not  owe  her  some  more  of  them  ?  You 
make  it  quite  plain  to  us  all  that  you  are  not  happy 
here." 

"  I  am  sorry,  Aunt  Miranda.  You  see,  it  is  very  dif 
ferent.  I  shall  get  used  to  it  —  I  must  get  used  to  it, 
for  I  shall  probably  live  here  all  my  life  —  all  my 
life !  "  she  repeated,  with  poignant  emphasis  that  was 
in  startling  contrast  to  the  listlessness  of  her  former 
manner.  Her  sewing  dropped  to  the  ground. 

"You  might  pick  it  up,"  said  her  aunt,  "but  you 
193 


THE   EVASION 

had  better  not  go  on  with  it.  The  more  you  do  the 
more  there  will  be  for  me  to  undo." 

Gladys  controlled  herself  quickly.  "  I  am  doing  it 
most  vilely,"  she  admitted ;  "  but  if  papa  has  lost  so 
much  money  that  we  cannot  afford  to  buy  clothes,  I 
must  learn  to  make  them.  The  next  time  I  go  to  town 
I  will  get  some  Butterick  patterns." 

"  It  is  n't  any  harder  for  you  to  make  your  clothes 
than  for  Harold  to  give  up  going  to  college." 

"  It  may  not  be  so  hard,"  said  Gladys. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  Miss  Miranda  reflected 
upon  the  irony  of  a  fate  that  had  taken  the  luxurious 
member  of  the  family  off  their  hands  during  the  time 
of  comparative  wealth,  and  brought  her  back  at  this 
moment  of  poverty. 

Gladys,  sewing  her  seam  "  most  vilely,"  looked  from 
time  to  time  at  her  aunt's  face,  which  was  thin  and  long, 
lacking  in  gracious  lines,  and  at  her  aunt's  hair,  parted 
in  the  middle  and  drawn  primly  back  into  the  old-fash 
ioned  knot  at  the  top  of  her  head.  Then  she  tried  to 
recall  the  name  of  this  knot,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
in  some  far-off  dead  existence  she  had  heard  it  called  a 
"  Pug-"  The  lines  of  Miranda's  figure  were  angular  and 
uncompromising.  Had  she  ever  lounged  ? 

It  was  inevitable  that  another  figure  should  come 
before  the  eye  of  her  mind,  —  the  figure  of  a  woman 
graceful,  elegant,  luxuriously  moulded,  satisfying  in 
every  detail  to  sensuous  demands  and  aesthetic  taste. 

Every  few  days  Arthur  sent  her  flowers,  opulent 
flowers,  nourished  in  hothouses,  and  every  Sunday  he 

194 


FLIGHT 

came  himself,  bringing  with  him  something  of  excite 
ment  from  the  world  that  she  had  loved.  He  was  puz 
zled  and  disturbed  by  Gladys's  flight  to  the  country, 
and  begged  an  explanation  from  his  aunt. 

"There  is  no  quarrel,"  she  told  him.  "We  simply 
differed  in  a  point  of  view.  Think  of  parting  company 
at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century  because  of  a  dif 
ference  in  a  point  of  view  !  Gladys  is  a  very  silly  little 
girl.  At  the  same  time,  she  is  one  of  the  few  women  I 
was  ever  able  to  like,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  her 
back." 

"  I  went  out  to  see  her  yesterday,  and  she  was  mak 
ing  a  dress  for  herself,"  continued  Arthur,  with  grave 
astonishment.  "  It  does  n't  seem  like  you,  Aunt  Edith" 
—  he  paused. 

"  My  dear  boy  !  she  is  more  than  welcome  to  her 
wardrobe,  and  it  is  much  in  the  way  here.  But  that 
child  can  no  more  live  without  pretty  clothes  than  I 
can.  Few  things  could  bring  her  to  her  senses  sooner 
than  wearing  a  home-made  gown  or  two,  for  to  a 
woman  with  her  genius  for  dress  no  amount  of  grati 
fied  ideal  could  compensate  for  a  badly  hanging  skirt. 
You  see,  I  am  playing  directly  into  your  hands." 

All  that  spring  Gladys  continued  to  make  her  clothes, 
and  she  was  loyal  in  her  application  to  such  household 
duties  as  were  thrown  upon  her  by  the  dismissal  of  half 
the  family  servants.  But  while  dusting  the  shelves 
containing  old  china,  or  darning  stockings,  she  thought 
with  bitter  longing  of  the  traffic  of  ideas,  the  inspira 
tion  of  the  arts,  the  exercise  of  personal  power,  and  the 

195 


THE   EVASION 

men  who  had  loved  her  while  she  lived  out  in  the  world. 
She  looked  into  the  years  to  come  and  saw  them  filled 
with  nondescript,  eventless  days.  She  saw  the  wrinkles 
grow  in  her  face  and  the  gray  in  her  hair,  and  life  com 
ing  to  her  with  futile,  empty,  and  withered  hands. 


CHAPTER   X 

SPRING 

spite  of  Gladys's  efforts  to  be  cheerful,  her  discon 
tent  was  sufficiently  palpable  to  reach  the  perception 
of  her  absent-minded  father. 

"  She  does  n't  look  well,"  he  told  Molly  one  day. 

"  I  should  think  not,"  answered  his  browned  and 
vigorous  younger  daughter.  "  Gladys  never  had  flesh 
like  any  one  else's,  and  now  she  is  almost  transparent. 
If  she  swallowed  claret  or  anything  bright,  I  think  you 
could  see  it  passing  through  her  throat." 

This  remark  troubled  the  professor  seriously,  and 
was  in  his  mind  one  day  when,  coming  in  from  a  morn 
ing  walk,  he  found  Gladys  on  her  knees  beside  a  flower 
bed. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  my  little  girl  is  lonely,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  and  brushed  the  hair  from  her  eyes 
with  the  back  of  her  hand. 

"  Of  course  it  is  quiet,"  she  admitted.  "  Harold  is 
away,  and  Molly  is  busy  with  spring  examinations,  and 
you  are  busy  with  germs,  and  Aunt  Miranda  never 
talks  unless  she  has  something  to  say.  After  all,  there 
are  so  few  things  that  are  worth  saying,  but  one  need 
not  stop  talking  because  of  that.  Sit  down,  papa,  on 
that  stone.  It  is  quite  warm,  and  we  can  talk  a  little, 

197 


THE   EVASION 

even  though  we  say  nothing.  You  don't  mind  my  buy 
ing  the  flower-seeds,  do  you  ?  They  cost  hardly  any 
thing.  I  used  to  love  the  garden,  and  I  thought  I 
would  try  to  love  it  again." 

"  But  you  are  not  very  successful  at  loving  it  yet,  eh, 
Gladys?" 

She  looked  off  over  the  brown  earth  stretched  pa 
tiently  under  the  quickening  warmth  of  spring  sun 
shine.  A  wide,  benign  smile  seemed  to  rest  on  the  whole 
of  nature,  but  the  girl  saw  it  as  the  face  of  a  friend 
from  which  friendship  has  fled. 

"  Something  seems  to  have  gone  out  of  the  world," 
she  said.  "  I  wonder  what  it  is." 

"Things  go  out  of  the  world  for  us  all,  sooner  or 
later.  But  you  are  too  young  to  have  lost  anything.  I 
think  you  are  tired  from  the  gay  winter,  and  a  little 
lonely."  The  professor  hesitated  before  continuing 
shyly,  "  Perhaps  you  are  worried  as  to  what  you  had 
better  do  about  that  very  good-looking  young  cousin 
who  sends  you  flowers  every  day." 

"Why,  papa !  do  you  think  that  I  am  thinking  of  — 
marrying  Arthur  ?  " 

"  Surely,  my  dear.    Why  else  "  — 

"  But  you  don't  want  me  to  marry,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  my  little  girl  to  be  happy,  which  she 
will  never  be  in  her  old  home ;  and  this  Arthur  is  a 
charming  fellow." 

"  But  I  do  not  love  him." 

Again  Gladys  looked  out  over  the  bare  meadows, 
and  unhappiness  dwelt  in  her  eyes. 

198 


SPEING 

"  I  shall  never  love  any  one,"  she  said,  "  and  so,  of 
course,  I  shall  never  marry  any  one." 

Her  father  looked  startled,  and  then  fell  to  study 
ing  the  hole  made  in  the  ground  by  the  point  of  his 
cane. 

"  You  cannot  possibly  know  that  —  even  if  there  had 
ever  been  "  —  He  paused,  conscious  of  indelicacy  in 
seeming  to  question  even  his  own  daughter  on  such  a 
subject. 

"  There  never  was,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Then  surely  you  are  unreasonable  to  think  that 
there  never  will  be." 

"  It  could  not  be  Arthur  in  any  case." 

The  professor  sighed  helplessly.  "He  seems  such 
a  charming  fellow,"  he  said,  "  and  I  think  he  would 
make  you  happy." 

"  Oh,  please  !  please !  papa,  do  not  tease  me !  " 

"  But,  my  dear,  I  never  meant  "  — 

"  It  could  never  be  Arthur.  He  is  a  very  dear  boy,  I 
know,  and  I  think  that  he  is  very  fond  of  me  and  would 
try  to  make  me  happy.  But  Arthur  could  never  under 
stand." 

"  Understand  !  "  repeated  the  professor  vaguely,  feel 
ing  very  far  from  understanding  himself,  and  disturbed 
by  the  rising  excitement  in  his  daughter's  voice. 

"  Yes.  There  are  some  people  who  know  why  you 
cry  or  smile.  They  know  something  of  the  things  yovi 
would  say  when  you  are  silent,  and  the  unspoken  words 
behind  the  words  that  you  speak,  and,  what  is  more 
important  than  all,  they  know  when  they  do  not  know. 

199 


THE   EVASION 

But  Arthur  would  never  understand  anything,  and  the 
more  I  explained  the  less  he  would  know." 

The  professor  felt  that  he  could  sympathize  with 
Arthur's  condition  of  mental  darkness. 

"There  was  one  man  who  understood,"  continued 
his  daughter,  "  and  he  was  not  a  good  man,  he  was  not 
honorable  "  —  Her  words  halted  as  though  the  speak 
ing  of  them  gave  her  physical  pain.  "  I  think  I  might 
some  day  have  loved  what  I  thought  that  man  was," 
she  continued  in  a  lower  voice,  "  and  if  I  ever  met 
any  one  who  was  what  I  imagined  him  to  be,  why,  I 
might " — 

"  Perhaps  you  will  meet  such  a  man,"  suggested  her 
father  timidly.  But  Gladys  shook  her  head. 

"  I  never  shall.  Never  !  Never  !  Never !  "  she  re 
peated  desolately. 

"  I  suppose  we  are  thinking  of  the  same  person." 

Gladys,  supporting  herself  by  her  hand  as  she  bent 
over  the  flower  bed,  did  not  lift  her  head,  and  kept  a 
silence  which  her  father  interpreted  as  consent. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  that  the  charges  against  him 
are  just,  my  daughter  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  They  are  quite  just,"  said  the  girl,  speaking  al 
most  inaudibly  as  she  bent  over  the  earth.  "  They  are 
true.  He  —  confessed  them.  And  there  are  other 
things.  He  spends  a  great  deal  of  money  no  one  knows 
how  —  and  there  is  a  woman  —  the  kind  of  woman  "  — 
A  painful  flush  swept  her  face  and  throat. 

The  professor  took  off  his  hat  and  looked  soberly 
into  the  crown  of  it. 

200 


SPRING 

"  His  father  was  my  oldest  friend,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  It  would  have  broken  his  heart.  I  am  glad  that  he 
died."  They  spoke  in  the  hushed  voices  of  people  al 
luding  to  a  calamity. 

"  If  his  mother  had  lived,  perhaps  he  would  have 
grown  up  into  a  good  man,"  she  said.  "  He  loved  his 
mother  —  at  least,  he  told  me  so."  She  lifted  her  head 
suddenly,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "Perhaps  that  story 
also  was  a  lie,"  she  added. 

"What  story?" 

Gladys  rose,  and  the  professor  looked  with  surprise 
at  the  expression  on  her  face.  It  was  as  though  an 
acid  had  curdled  the  youth  of  it. 

"  If  I  never  ask  anything  of  you  again,  let  me  ask 
this  one  thing,"  she  said.  "  Never  speak  to  me  of 
Richard  Copeland.  He  was  my  friend.  I  gave  him 
the  best  that  I  had  —  except  my  love,  and  I  might 
have  given  him  that  if  he  had  been  what  he  seemed. 
As  it  is  —  the  world  is  too  small,  the  seas  are  too  shal 
low,  the  skies  are  too  low  to  separate  me  from  him  as 
utterly  as  I  would  be  separated !  " 

In  his  spare  moments,  the  professor  ruminated  with 
considerable  perplexity  upon  this  conversation  with  his 
eldest  daughter. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  he  thought.  "It  is  hard  to 
stumble  over  a  scoundrel  at  the  threshold  of  life.  I 
wonder  if  she  is  as  much  or  more  hurt  by  the  fall  than 
she  thinks  ? "  There  was  no  answer  to  this  question, 
and  the  professor  shook  his  head  over  it  with  deep  dis 
tress.  "  My  poor  little  girl !  "  he  repeated. 

201 


THE   EVASION 

A  week  passed,  and  the  "  green  fire  "  of  spring  crept 
up  from  the  lowlands.  The  brooding  patience  of  the 
March  landscape  was  flung  off  in  an  hour.  All  night 
the  hylas  piped  shrill  and  sweetly  in  the  marshes, 
and  the  day  was  full  of  beating  wings,  of  stirring 
pulses,  of  mounting  aspiring  life  —  a  riot  of  life  in 
earth  and  air  and  animal.  And  beyond  what  the  eye 
could  see  or  the  ear  could  hear,  beyond  the  farthest 
horizon,  or  the  vanishing  cloud,  came  the  eternal  and 
mysterious  call  of  the  springtide. 

"Perhaps  you  will  be  happier  now  that  the  real 
spring  has  come,"  her  father  suggested ;  but  Gladys 
answered  with  a  swift  and  unexpected  passion. 

"  I  think  that  I  could  bear  anything  in  life  —  any 
thing,  except  the  spring !  "  she  cried ;  and  then  tried  to 
laugh  away  her  intensity.  "  It  makes  you  want  things," 
she  explained.  "It  makes  you  want  big,  wonderful 
things,  —  mountain-tops,  mid-oceans,  distant  lands." 

As  she  spoke,  the  flowerlike  blue  of  her  eyes  was 
clouded  by  the  ache  of  living,  and  her  father  looked 
at  her  with  growing  trouble. 

"  I  think  that  you  need  a  change,"  he  began,  after  a 
short  pause,  "  and  of  course  you  will  visit  your  New 
port  and  Bar  Harbor  friends  this  summer." 

"  I  could  not  possibly  visit  anywhere  in  clothes  of 
my  own  making.  Oh,  papa,  I  am  sorry  I  said  that ! 
I  didn't  mean  it  as  a  reproach  —  I  didn't,  really." 

With  quick  compunction,  Gladys  threw  her  arms 
about  her  father's  neck,  and  then  most  unreasonably 
she  began  to  cry  with  suffocating  violence. 

202 


SPRING 

The  professor  patted  her  back  awkwardly,  and  ven 
tured  to  suggest  that  there  might  be  something  on  her 
mind  that  she  did  not  confess ;  but  she  answered  with 
an  indignant  denial. 

"  What  should  there  be,  papa  ?  How  absurd  men 
are  !  Don't  you  see  that  I  am  crying  ?  Don't  you  see 
that  I  want  to  be  by  myself  ?  " 

Left  alone,  Gladys  continued  to  sob,  and  as  she 
wept  she  began  to  think  of  Dick.  In  a  world  blurred 
by  her  tears  his  figure  loomed  gigantic  as  the  one 
overpowering  fact  in  her  existence. 

"  He  might  have  meant  the  happiness  of  my  whole 
life  if  he  had  been  what  he  seemed,  and  that  is  why  I 
cannot  forget  him,"  she  said,  and  continued  to  weep 
hopelessly  with  her  head  bowed  into  her  hands. 


CHAPTER  XI 
A  WOMAN'S  DECISION 

'NE  day  Harold  sought  a  private  interview  with  his 
elder  sister.  "I  saw  Arthur  Davenport  at  his  office 
to-day,"  he  began,  with  a  careful  attempt  at  indiffer 
ence.  "  I  thought  he  might  help  me  to  find  something 
to  do.  And  he  was  trumps,  all  right." 

"  What  did  he  suggest  ?  " 

"  He  says  I  must  go  through  college."  Harold  ven 
tured  an  embarrassed  sidelong  look  at  his  sister.  "  He 
says  that  my  prospects  of  getting  ahead  in  the  future 
will  be  diminished  about  one  half  by  the  lack  of  col 
lege  education  and  friends,  and  he  wants  to  put  me 
through  himself." 

"  Did  you  accept  his  offer  ?  "  asked  Gladys  gravely. 

"  What  do  you  .take  me  for  ?  I  had  to  speak  to  you 
first.  Hang  it  all,  Gladys!  why  do  you  make  it  so 
hard  for  a  fellow  to  explain  ?  I  could  take  a  gift  like 
that  and  pay  it  back  some  day,  from  a  brother-in-law, 
but  I  can't  from  a  comparative  stranger.  If  you  will 
only  make  up  your  mind  what  you  are  going  to  do,  I 
can  make  up  mine." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  Gladys's  torment. 

"  Do  you  all  want  me  to  marry  him  ?  "  she  cried  once 
to  her  father. 

204 


A  WOMAN'S   DECISION 

"  My  dear,  if  you  could  want  to  marry  him,  it  would 
make  us  all  very  happy,"  he  answered. 

Aunt  Miranda  took  sides  against  her. 

"  You  have  too  many  fanciful  notions,"  she  said. 
"  The  period  of  being  in  love  is  a  very  short  one,  and 
when  it  is  gone  the  best  that  is  left  to  go  through  life 
on  is  respect  and  affection  —  you  admit  that  you  start 
with  that.  I  do  not  think  that  a  woman  is  called  upon 
to  make  an  unhappy  or  degrading  marriage  for  the 
sake  of  her  family,  but  to  let  a  mere  whim  stand  in  the 
way  of  your  brother's  future,  not  to  speak  of  the  actual 
comfort  of  your  father's  old  age  —  for  we  are  very  poor 
—  seems  to  me  actually  wrong." 

"  But  it  is  not  fair  !  "  she  cried  to  Harold,  in  the  one 
moment  when  her  reserve  broke  down.  "  Why  should 
I  be  sacrificed  to  your  pride  ?  Take  Arthur's  offer  as 
it  was  made,  generously.  But  do  not  make  me  the  cost 
of  the  gift." 

"'Nobody  wants  to  make  you  the  cost  of  anything^" 
answered  Harold.  His  young  eyes  were  stern  and  hard ; 
but  he  forced  himself  to  speak  gently,  out  of  pity  for 
the  wan  misery  of  her  face.  "  I  don't  know  what  Molly 
and  Aunt  Miranda  are  saying  to  you,  but  I  don't  want 
you  to  lift  a  finger  on  my  account.  I  only  want  to  know 
what  you  are  going  to  do." 

"  But  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know  what  I  am  going 
to  do  !  "  she  cried  desperately. 

Harold  looked  at  her  with  the  easy  contempt  of 
masculine  youth.  "  I  should  think  you  might  have 
plenty  of  reasons  of  your  own  for  accepting  a  man  like 

205 


THE   EVASION 

that,"  he  said.  "  You  will  never  have  such  another 
chance,  —  and  you  had  better  nail  that  up  on  your 
mirror  where  you  can  see  it  every  day.  Sometimes 
women  behave  as  though  they  preferred  being  miser 
able." 

Arthur  did  his  best  in  these  days,  though  he  would 
often  have  given  up  in  despair  but  for  the  support  and 
prompting  of  his  Aunt  Edith. 

"  I  can't  work  or  play  or  do  anything,"  he  told 
Gladys.  "  You  look  like  a  ghost,  and  you  are  wretched 
in  this  God-forsaken  place  —  any  one  can  see  that ;  yet 
you  won't  let  me  take  you  away  and  make  you  happy." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  could  ?  "  she  asked  him,  with 
a  faint  smile.  "  Are  not  you  afraid  the  bill  might  be  a 
heavier  one  than  your  credit  could  stand  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not.  You  were  the  gayest,  happiest  girl 
I  knew  before  you  came  here  to  bury  yourself  alive ; 
and  if  you  would  come  back  among  your  friends, —  who 
are  all  longing  for  you, —  you  would  be  again." 

"  Which,  Arthur, —  gay  or  happy?" 

"  I  should  say  they  were  pretty  much  the  same 
thing." 

"  They  are  quite,  quite  different." 

Arthur  puzzled  dimly  over  this  remark,  but  he  was 
too  much  in  earnest  to  dwell  upon  its  complications. 

"Haven't  you  changed  your  mind  at  all?"  he 
pleaded.  "Aren't  you  feeling  it  more  possible  than 
you  used  to  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  love  you,  Arthur." 

"  Come  without  loving  me,  then !  " 
206 


A  WOMAN'S   DECISION 

"  Would  you  wish  me  to  come  that  way  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  any  way,"  he  said.  "  Sometimes  it 
seems  as  though  I  should  go  wild  wanting  you ! "  So 
spoke  Arthur  in  his  most  exalted  hours,  with  his  face 
touched  and  refined  by  the  highest  issues  his  life  was 
to  know.  Before  the  woman  he  loved  his  nature  w#s 
drawn  to  its  full  height,  and,  looking  at  him,  this 
woman,  who  was  thinking  of  becoming  his  wife,  asked 
herself  with  a  flash  of  bitter  intuition  if  he  were  not 
standing  at  more  than  his  height,  —  if  he  were  not,  in 
fact,  on  tiptoe. 

"  You  could  make  the  right  kind  of  a  man  out  of  me, 
if  you  would  take  me,"  he  said,  as  though  in  answer  to 
her  thought. 

"  Are  you  not  the  right  kind  of  a  man  now  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer  at  once,  for  her  words  had  roused 
the  unwelcome  memories  that  showed  him  to  himself 
as  he  was,  and  he  felt  suddenly  callous  and  quite  old. 
Indulgence,  praise,  and  easy  pleasure  had  weakened  the 
springs  of  his  vital  being,  which  had  never  been  either 
deep  or  strong ;  and  in  these  moments  of  self -revelation 
life  seemed  a  worthless  and  a  shuffling  thing  in  which 
nothing  was  worth  a  struggle,  even  the  love  of  the 
woman  he  wanted.  If  Gladys  had  looked  at  him,  she 
might  have  seen  something  of  this  in  his  face. 

"  Do  not  come  next  Sunday,"  she  was  saying,  in  a 
voice  unusually  still  and  controlled.  "  Do  not  come 
next  Sunday  unless  I  send  for  you." 

Arthur  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to — to  do  anything  with  the  idea 
207 


THE   EVASION 

of  helping  me,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  am  a  poor  stick, 
and  I  suspect  I  am  not  worth  helping."  He  laughed 
drearily,  and  this  was  perhaps  the  most  sincere  and  dis 
interested  utterance  of  his  life. 

The  next  day  Gladys  went  out  alone  into  the  spring 
world  that  she  had  almost  grown  to  fear  because  of  its 
insistent  appeal  to  everything  she  was  trying  to  forget ; 
but  the  time  had  gone  by  for  weakness,  for  futile  com 
plaint,  and  the  cherishing  of  her  own  misery.  Sitting 
on  the  edge  of  a  wide  meadow  that  was  brimful  of  sun 
shine,  and  where  the  rush  grass  rippled  in  the  wind,  and 
the  birds  went  mad  with  joy,  she  deliberately  faced  her 
life.  Bitterness,  vanity,  poverty,  and  paltry  consider 
ations  had  come  into  it ;  but  was  this  enough  to  have 
despoiled  it  of  bloom  and  fragrance  ?  Desolately  she 
sat  there,  wondering  why  promise  and  hope  should  have 
fled  so  utterly.  Once  she  had  dreamed  of  a  winged 
rapture  — 

And  now  that  the  years  to  come  were  marshaled  for 
her  inspection,  she  asked  herself  how  she  was  to  fill 
them, — the  eventless  years  of  unfulfilled  possibilities, 
the  meagre  years  that  she  saw  moving  past  her  into  the 
shadows  of  old  age.  And  she  pictured  life  as  it  might 
be  as  Arthur's  wife,  holding  enriching  and  stimulating 
experience.  She  could  not  imagine  that  these  things 
or  any  others  could  bring  her  happiness,  though  they 
would  bring  her  life,  of  a  kind.  But  like  a  presence  in 
the  noonday  was  a  voice  telling  her  that  few  wrongs 
could  be  greater  than  that  of  the  woman  who  gives  her 
self  without  her  love.  It  was  only  an  ideal.  "  But  it 

208 


A  WOMAN'S   DECISION 

would  be  selling  it  too  cheap  —  too  cheap !  "  she  cried. 
For  in  her  nature  was  something  of  the  substance  that 
goes  to  make  poets  and  mystics. 

There  were  moments  when  she  felt  that  the  things  of 
this  world  were  not  enough ;  when  she  was  conscious 
of  the  reality  of  unseen  forces,  of  an  ultimate  harmony, 
a  deathless  beauty,  a  solemn  significance  in  her  relation 
to  timeless  laws.  And  now,  facing  a  crucial  hour  in  her 
life,  she  regained  the  sense  of  her  own  deepest  being 
which  had  been  dissipated  by  years  of  excitement  and 
pleasure,  and  the  need  was  upon  her  to  choose  the  road 
that  would  lead  to  the  dignity  and  righteousness  of 
her  inner  life.  By  righteousness  she  meant  beauty, 
for  she  had  this  in  common  with  poets,  that  she  loved 
the  right  chiefly  because  it  was  beautiful,  rather  than 
the  beautiful  because  it  was  right. 

"  For  myself,  for  anything  that  it  may  bring  me,  I 
cannot  do  it !  "  she  repeated. 

And  then  she  thought  of  others.  She  saw  her  father's 
face  worn  with  care ;  she  saw  her  brother's  life  impov 
erished  by  the  lack  of  opportunity  which  she  could 
bring,  and  wondered  how  she  could  endure  lifelong  re 
proach  in  the  eyes  of  those  she  loved.  There  were  many 
who  gave  themselves  that  others  might  be  saved,  and 
held  their  lives  well  spent.  This  opportunity  had  come 
to  her.  What  should  she  do  with  it  ? 

Slowly  and  insensibly  her  existence  had  grown  into  a 
savorless  thing,  —  what  matter,  then,  how  she  used  it  if 
others  were  helped  ?  Of  what  value  was  her  ideal  —  this 
dim  and  obscure  ideal  that  dwelt  on  the  heights  of  her 

209 


THE   EVASION 

soul  —  beside  an  immediate  human  need  ?  If  she  bar 
tered  the  sense  of  her  relation  to  eternal  laws  when  she 
gave  herself  without  love,  what  matter  was  it  ?  What 
was  the  unseen  that  lives  should  ache  in  its  service  ? 
And  what  was  her  own  life  that  she  should  hesitate  to 
yield  it  to  others  ? 


CHAPTER  XII 
A  MAN'S  EESOLVE 

_LL  that  spring  and  part  of  the  summer  Richard 
Copeland  lay  ill  of  a  fever,  and  the  elms  in  front  of 
the  hospital  were  yellowing  under  falling  autumn  suns 
before  he  was  discharged. 

Stepping  into  the  street  for  the  first  time,  the  noise 
and  confusion  of  it  smote  his  weakened  nerves  intol 
erably,  and  he  walked  uncertainly  and  feebly,  like  one 
already  old.  But  Dick  knew  that  the  flood-tide  of  life 
was  before  him;  and  sitting  in  a  public  park  by  the 
river  through  long  afternoons,  feeling  his  strength  re 
turning  to  him  hour  by  hour,  he  reviewed  the  events  of 
his  past  and  planned  his  future.  Without  intention 
of  giving  up  his  work,  he  temporarily  ceased  to  think 
of  the  toiling  multitudes  whose  cause  he  wished  to 
make  his  own.  Their  affairs  appeared  to  him  just  now 
as  dreary  and  unmanageable.  But  hungrily,  gladly, 
and  audaciously,  he  thought  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

Gladys  had  been  as  a  presence  dominating  his  hours 
of  delirium,  and  when  he  came  back  to  the  conscious 
ness  of  actual  things,  though  apprehending  them  but 
dimly  because  of  his  mortal  weakness,  she  was  still 
strangely  near.  The  black  mist  of  her  misunderstand 
ing  hung  between  them ;  but  above  the  knowledge  of 

211 


THE   EVASION 

her  brain,  and  higher  than  the  testimony  of  visible 
proof,  her  inmost  being  seemed  rising  to  meet  him  with 
triumphant  recognition. 

At  the  second  stage  of  his  convalescence  he  left  this 
fancy  behind  him,  but  remembered  the  moment  at  the 
door  of  her  house  when  she  had  stood  radiant  in  her  vel 
vet  and  fur  and  violets,  but  facing  him  coldly.  Then 
he  had  looked  at  her,  and  under  the  look  had  seen  her 
face  change  and  vibrate  with  passionate,  unwilling  sur 
render.  He  felt  that  she  was  nearer  to  loving  him  then 
than  she  had  ever  been  during  that  wonderful  summer ; 
and,  with  such  wisdom  as  he  had  gained  during  the 
three  years  that  had  passed  since  then,  Dick  determined 
to  tell  her  the  truth.  The  boyish  pride  and  defiance 
which  had  kept  him  silent  in  the  beginning  was  un 
worthy  of  a  moment's  consideration  when  opposed  to 
the  stress  of  actual  living,  and  for  Arthur  Davenport 
he  had  nothing  but  contempt,  feeling  no  more  com 
punction  at  brushing  him  from  his  path  than  he  would 
have  at  disposing  of  a  troublesome  insect. 

But  immediately  upon  this  decision  Dick  had  fallen 
ill,  and  now  he  tried  his  strength  in  the  autumn  sun 
shine,  laughing  at  his  incredible  weakness,  walking  day 
by  day  a  little  farther,  and  wondering  how  long  it 
would  be  before  he  could  reach  the  corner  from  which 
an  electric  car  could  take  him  to  Gladys.  At  these 
moments  he  felt  an  Olympian  being,  degraded  to  some 
thing  less  than  man,  by  reason  of  his  inability  to  walk 
to  a  street  car. 

Humiliating  considerations  were  necessary  before  he 
212 


A  MAN'S   KESOLVE 

could  reach  her,  and  tell  her  that  it  was  all  nonsense, 
for  he  had  never  done  the  thing.  The  possibility  of 
her  disbelieving  him  never  crossed  the  remotest  region 
of  his  thought. 

The  day  came  at  last  when  he  said,  "  I  can  go  to 
morrow,"  —  and  that  afternoon  he  met  Molly. 

There  was  nothing  in  her  look  or  movement  that 
remotely  suggested  Gladys ;  but  because  she  was  her 
sister,  Dick's  heart  leapt  from  the  place  assigned  to  it 
by  nature,  and  his  knees  threatened  ignominious  col 
lapse.  He  even  thought  with  longing  of  an  adjacent 
bench,  but  succeeded  in  addressing  her  with  superficial 
firmness. 

Molly  seemed  more  than  willing  to  pass  him,  and 
when  he  questioned  her  with  regard  to  her  sister's  ad 
dress,  she  looked  at  him  curiously  before  answering.  It 
appeared  that  Gladys  was  in  New  York,  and  had  been 
moving  when  last  heard  from.  Mr.  Aldrich  would 
know  where  she  was  at  present,  —  and  then,  after  a 
barely  perceptible  pause,  Molly  left  him  with  the  im 
pression  that  she  had  withheld  important  informa 
tion. 

Dick  sat  upon  his  bench  and  wrestled  with  a  disap 
pointment  that  seemed  of  titanic  proportions.  In  New 
York !  —  she  might  almost  as  well  have  been  at  the 
North  Pole.  Moreover,  he  felt  dimly  that  circumstances 
were  conspiring  a  second  time  to  take  her  from  him, 
and  arrogance  is  not  easy  to  one  who  is  incapable  of 
standing  firmly  upon  his  legs.  But  Dick  was  a  fighter, 
and  he  did  not  sit  long  upon  the  bench,  but  rose  and 

213 


THE   EVASION 

walked  to  another  one  which  was  in  the  common,  and 
which  was  reached  by  crossing  an  arid  waste  strewn 
with  pitfalls  of  street-corners,  and  dangers  of  onslaught 
from  perambulators  guided  by  reckless  and  agres- 
sively  healthy  nursemaids.  At  last  he  sat  again,  after 
the  longest  walk  since  his  illness.  He  was  slightly  out 
of  breath,  and  weak  in  the  knees,  and  thought  with 
dismay  of  the  necessity  for  getting  back  again. 

"  But  I  shall  go  to  New  York  on  Monday,"  he  said. 

It  was  Tuesday  when  Mr.  Aldrich,  to  whom  he  had 
sent  a  brief  note  announcing  his  arrival,  waited  for 
him  in  the  leather  armchair  by  his  library  fire.  He 
was  suffering  from  gout  in  his  right  knee,  and  his  face 
had  the  prematurely  cadaverous  look  which  is  age's 
heritage  from  an  unnaturally  exhausted  youth.  Since 
last  seeing  Dick  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  say  cer 
tain  things  to  him  ;  but  he  had  waited  eight  months  for 
a  chance  to  say  them,  during  which  time  his  ward  had 
disappeared  as  completely  as  though  he  were  dead. 

Mr.  Aldrich  had  been  anxious,  but  now  that  Dick 
had  come  to  the  surface  again  he  was  irritated  at  the 
cause  of  his  anxiety,  and  grumbled  aloud  as  he  looked 
into  the  fire. 

"  He  has  been  up  to  more  damned  foolishness,"  he 
said. 

During  the  eight  months  of  Dick's  silence  certain 
things  had  happened,  and  as  he  waited  and  grumbled 
Mr.  Aldrich  wondered  if  Dick  knew  of  them,  and  if 
he  would  care. 

"  Mr.  Copeland  asks  if  you  could  see  him  for  a  mo- 
214 


A  MAN'S   RESOLVE 

ment,  sir,"  announced  the  butler,  appearing  noiselessly 
at  the  door. 

"Tell  him  to  come  up.  Send  him  up!"  said  Mr. 
Aldrich  testily;  and  when  Dick  appeared  a  moment 
later,  he  looked  at  him  fiercely. 

To  himself  he  was  saying,  "  I  am  infernally  glad  to 
see  the  fellow."  Aloud  he  said,  — 

"  I  have  a  bad  knee  and  can't  get  up.  What  have 
you  been  doing  with  yourself  ?  " 

"  Been  ill,"  said  Dick  cheerfully. 

"  You  look  it.    What  was  the  matter  ?  " 

"Fever  —  typhoid  with  complications,  bad  dreams, 
hospital,  and  the  rest  of  it.  I  am  all  right  now." 

Mr.  Aldrich  tapped  his  armchair  with  his  fingers, 
and  looked  as  though  he  had  received  a  personal  af 
front;  though  not  since  the  night  of  the  disastrous 
game  four  years  ago  had  his  ward  presented  himself 
in  so  genial  a  mood.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the 
suspicion  under  which  he  stood,  or  else  to  be  discount 
ing  it  as  unworthy  of  further  consideration. 

"You  went  so  long  without  drawing  any  money, 
that  I  thought  you  were  dead,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich. 
"  Why  did  n't  you  let  somebody  know  ?  " 

"  I  told  them  to  notify  you  if  I  died." 

"  Thoughtful  of  you !  " 

"  I  am  sorry  about  your  knee,"  said  Dick.  "  What 
is  it?" 

"  Good  living,"  growled  the  older  man. 

"  Gout,"  supplemented  Dick.    The  other  nodded. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  added  Dick. 
215 


THE   EVASION 

"Then  we  agree  about  something  at  last.  Don't 
become  a  tippler,  Richard,  whatever  you  are." 

Dick  smiled  a  warm  and  brilliant  smile. 

"  I  am  a  teetotaler,"  he  said.    "  Is  n't  that  worse  ?  " 

"  The  devil  you  are !  Why?  No,  don't  explain.  It's 
probably  something  to  do  with  the  greatest  good  of  the 
greatest  number,  and  I  always  disliked  the  greatest 
number,  —  there  is  an  unsavoriness  about  them  which 
—  but  never  mind.  Have  you  come  for  more  money  ?  " 

"  I  cashed  quite  a  check  in  Boston  before  leaving. 
No,  —  I  came  to  find  out  if  you  still  have  that  old 
dress-suit  case  I  left  in  the  station  four  years  ago. 
Some  one  told  me  they  sent  it  to  you." 

Dick  smiled  as  he  alluded  to  the  night  of  his  accu 
sation,  which  began  to  seem  to  him  as  fantastic  and 
unreal  as  a  bit  of  comic  opera. 

Mr.  Aldrich  looked  at  him  keenly  for  a  moment. 

"  So  he  has  cut  his  eye-teeth,"  he  thought  with  satis 
faction,  and,  ringing  the  bell  at  his  side,  he  ordered 
the  dress-suit  case  in  question  to  be  brought  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  it  ?  " 

"  There  used  to  be  a  dress  suit  there.   I  want  that." 

"  My  dear  fellow  !  what  for  ?" 

"  Why  do  men  usually  want  them  ?  I  want  to  put  it 
on.  I  am  going  to  a  dinner." 

"And  you  contemplate  wearing  a  dress  suit  four 
years  old  ! " 

"  I  don't  think  the  company  will  mind,  —  it  is  a 
semi-political  affair,  and  we  are  going  to  discuss  labor 
measures.  You  probably  don't  realize,"  continued 

216 


A  MAN'S   EESOLVE 

Dick,  "  that  I  am  quite  a  famous  personage.  A  re 
porter  heard  me  give  my  name  at  the  bank,  since 
when  I  have  been  interviewed  several  times,  and  a 
publisher  has  approached  me  with  the  suggestion  that 
I  put  my  experience  of  Western  mines  into  book  form." 
As  he  spoke,  Dick's  sombre  eyes  shone  with  unex 
pected  amusement,  and  Mr.  Aldrich  remarked  silently 
that  his  ward  was  a  new  man,  and  hoped  that  a  hos 
pital  nurse  was  not  responsible  for  the  change. 

"  So  you  have  given  up  working  with  your  hands, 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  perspiring  proletariat," 
he  said. 

"No,  I  want  to  experience  more  of  the  conditions 
in  my  own  State,"  said  Dick.  "  The  fever  stopped  me 
in  the  middle  of  it." 

There  was  that  in  the  younger  man's  expression 
which  made  Mr.  Aldrich  fear  an  exposition  of  said 
conditions,  and  he  changed  the  subject  hastily. 

"  Did  you  happen  to  meet  Arthur  Davenport  on  the 
way  upstairs?"  he  asked. 

"  Arthur  Davenport !"  The  exclamation  was  invol 
untary,  and  then  a  well-trained  impassivity  usurped 
the  expression  of  Dick's  face. 

"  Was  I  likely  to  meet  him  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Too  late !  "  thought  Mr.  Aldrich  triumphantly. 
"  He  has  betrayed  it."  Aloud  he  said,  "  No,  you  '11  not 
meet  him  unless  you  wish.  He  is  confined  to  two  rooms 
where  he  has  been  ill  with  a  bad  attack  of  grippe.  The 
hotel  was  not  exactly  the  place  for  him,  and  he  was  not 
ill  enough  for  the  hospital ;  so,  at  the  request  of  one 

217 


THE  EVASION 

whose  wishes  it  has  been  the  study  of  my  life  to 
gratify,  I  brought  him  to  my  house.  He  has  been 
here  some  days."  And  now,  though  Mr.  Aldrich  spoke 
with  gentle  and  elaborate  nonchalance,  he  looked  sig 
nificantly  at  Dick. 

"  He  has  been  here  some  days,"  he  repeated,  "  and 
is  more  agreeable  than  the  average  convalescent.  But 
I  have  conceived  a  curious  dislike  to  shaking  hands 
with  that  young  man." 

Dick  met  his  look  with  eyes  and  face  still  guarded, 
for  he  had  no  intention  of  casting  any  suspicion  upon 
Arthur  which  was  not  necessarily  suggested  by  the 
declaration  of  his  own  innocence. 

But  Mr.  Aldrich  felt  that  he  was  understood,  and 
presently  there  came  a  subtle  relaxation  in  Dick's 
attitude  toward  the  room  and  its  owner.  A  log  on 
the  fire  collapsed  into  a  shower  of  sparks,  and  he 
left  the  distant  chair  where  he  had  been  provisionally 
seated. 

"  Shall  I  stir  it  up  a  bit?"  he  asked. 

Obtaining  permission,  he  attacked  it  with  capable 
hands,  and  then,  drawing  up  an  armchair  that  was 
companion  to  Mr.  Aldrich's,  he  stretched  himself  in  it 
luxuriously  and  looked  about  him. 

"  Pretty  jolly  room  you  have  here,"  he  remarked. 
"  I  always  used  to  think  that  when  I  grew  up  I  would 
have  a  library  with  books  piled  so  high  that  you  had 
to  reach  them  with  a  step-ladder,  as  you  do  here." 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow,  Richard,  but  you  've  been 
an  awful  fool,"  stated  his  trustee  abruptly. 

218 


A  MAN'S   RESOLVE 

Dick  dropped  his  eyes  from  the  bookcases  to  the 
older  man's  face. 

"  I  have  been  a  good  deal  of  a  jackass,"  he  admitted. 

"  I  never  thought  you  did  it,"  continued  Mr.  Aldrich. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Dick  briefly. 

"The  older  one  grows,  the  more  one  realizes  that 
any  one  is  likely  to  do  anything  at  any  time ;  but  this 
seemed  especially  unlikely,  and  in  the  case  of  the 
other  man  it  didn't." 

"  We  can  leave  the  other  man  out  of  it." 

Mr.  Aldrich  looked  at  Dick  with  fierce  old  eyes. 

"  That 's  as  it  may  be,"  he  said. 

The  butler's  entrance  with  a  dress-suit  case  inter 
rupted  the  conversation,  and  Dick  recognized  his  own 
property. 

"  I  ought  to  be  going,"  he  observed.  "  I  must  get  a 
shave  and  a  bath,  and  there  isn't  more  than  time 
enough,  taking  in  the  distance  to  and  from  the  hotel." 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  going  to  the  dinner  from 
here  ?  I  can  offer  you  a  comfortable  dressing-room,  — 
though  of  course  there  is  no  inducement  in  the  way  of 
companionship." 

Under  the  grudging  tone  of  this  invitation  Dick's 
sensitiveness  enabled  him  to  recognize  a  genuine  wish 
for  his  company,  which  the  lonely  man  was  too  proud 
to  express. 

"  I  'd  like  firstrate  to  stay,"  he  said  heartily. 

"  Now  that  you  are  sure  I  am  not  suspecting  you 
of  taking  my  money  behind  my  back,"  grinned  Mr. 
Aldrich. 

219 


THE   EVASION 

For  the  first  time  in  several  years  Dick  found  his 
dress  suit  laid  out  for  him,  his  bath  drawn,  his  shav 
ing-water  prepared,  and  in  these  things  he  luxuriated 
mightily. 

"  I  feel  almost  like  a  gentleman,"  he  remarked,  on 
returning  to  the  library. 

There  was  a  long,  old-fashioned  mirror  between  two 
bookcases,  and  he  stood  in  front  of  it,  surveying  himself 
the  while  with  some  complacency. 

"  I  have  n't  had  on  a  dress  suit  for  four  years,  and  I 
think  I  look  quite  well,"  he  announced. 

"  It  would  n't  be  my  idea  of  the  thing  at  all,"  said 
Mr.  Aldrich. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  It  bags  a  little  because  I  have 
grown  thin,  but  it  was  a  first-class  dress  suit  in  its 
day." 

"In  its  day!"  Mr.  Aldrich  lifted  his  hands.  "My 
dear  fellow,  it  is  four  years  out  of  fashion !  " 

"  I  don't  mind  that,"  answered  Dick  comfortably. 

"  There  is  where  we  should  differ.  You  have  some 
twenty  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank,  —  why  don't  you 
buy  a  new  one  ?  " 

Dick  laughed  good-humoredly  as  he  reseated  him 
self  by  the  fire. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  my  hands  ?  "  he  inquired, 
holding  them  out. 

Mr.  Aldrich  put  on  his  glasses  and  scrutinized  them 
gravely. 

"They  look  less  like  a  thug's  hands  than  they 
did,"  he  admitted. 

220 


A  MAN'S   KESOLVE 

'  "  That 's  what  I  thought.  They  improved  consider 
ably  in  the  hospital,  but  I  don't  suppose  they  will  ever 
be  really  decent  again.  I  am  vain  enough  to  object  to 
those  hands.  They  shock  people."  A  grave  and  tender 
smile  touched  Dick's  lips  as  he  recalled  the  time  he 
had  passed  Gladys  the  teacup.  Then,  leaning  towards 
the  fire  and  holding  the  poker  between  his  knees,  he 
asked  his  question,  — 

"  What  is  Miss  Lawrence's  New  York  address  ?  " 

Mr.  Aldrich's  monocle  dropped  with  a  click. 

"  Miss  Lawrence's  address  !  "  he  repeated. 

"  I  was  told  you  knew  it." 

"  Miss  Lawrence  —  well,  the  fact  is  that  the  lady  in 
question  is  probably  in  the  house  at  this  moment." 

Dick  looked  up  blankly. 

"  I  mean  Gladys  Lawrence." 

"  I  know  who  you  mean.  I  am  not  an  imbecile  — 
not  quite  yet !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Aldrich,  who  was  con 
siderably  upset  by  the  question,  as  well  as  by  the  man 
ner  in  which  it  had  been  put.  "  She  is  here  every  day, 
nursing  our  mutual  friend,  Arthur  Davenport.  If  you 
had  lived  where  you  belonged,  you  would  have  known 
that  he  has  been  trying  to  marry  her  ever  since  she 
returned  from  Europe.  And  he  is  one  of  those  whom 
fortune  favors." 

Dick  sat  motionless,  with  vacant  face  and  eyes 
turned  to  his  guardian,  and  for  the  moment  he  felt 
deprived  of  sensation  or  understanding. 

"  Is  she  engaged  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  might  call  it  an  engagement —  of  a 
221 


THE   EVASION 

kind,"  answered  Mr.  Aldrich,  with  grim  and  dismal 
intonation. 

"  Is  she — is  it  too  late  for  her  to  know  the  truth 
about  him  ?  "  asked  Dick,  in  a  toneless  voice. 

For  an  instant  Mr.  Aldrich  hesitated.  Then  his  eyes 
flashed,  and  he  thumped  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  No,  it 's  not  too  late  !  not  too  late  by  a  lifetime !  " 
he  cried. 

Dick  dropped  his  head  on  his  hands. 

"  So  the  hemp  was  spinning  for  my  gibbet,"  he 
muttered,  and  it  was  some  moments  before  he  moved, 
for  the  weakness  of  illness  was  still  upon  him.  Sud 
denly  he  rose  to  his  full,  gaunt  height. 

"  Where  shall  I  find  him  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  In  the  room  to  the  right  of  the  front  door,  and  he 
will  be  alone.  This  is  his  hour  for  sleeping  while  she 
goes  to  walk.  Give  him  no  quarter,  boy!  Don't  let 
any  hobgoblin  of  *  plighted  troth '  stand  in  your  way. 
I  wish  I  were  you,  with  your  youth  and  your  chance 
and  your  prize  to  win !  " 

Dick  was  already  at  the  door  when  Mr.  Aldrich  was 
smitten  with  indecision.  Rising  in  strong  excitement 
he  hobbled  after  his  ward. 

"  Richard  !  Confound  this  infernal  knee  !  Richard  ! 
I  say,  don't  forget  you  've  been  ill,  —  you  are  not  fit 
for  excitement.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you,  —  it  may 
be  too  late  for  her  to  listen  to  you." 

"  It  won't  be  too  late  for  her  to  listen  to  him  ! " 
answered  Dick,  from  halfway  down  the  stairway  and 
without  turning  his  head. 

222 


A  MAN'S   RESOLVE 

The  older  man  returned  to  his  chair. 

"  The  boy  smells  powder,"  he  muttered.  "  He  will 
fight  for  his  own !  And  if  he  is  conquered  now  by 
priests  and  conventions,  I  '11  never  forgive  him." 

After  that  he  was  quiet  —  listening  and  waiting. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

UNCHARTED    WATERS 

J_N  the  room  to  the  right  of  the  front  door  Arthur  lay 
asleep  in  a  Morris  chair,  nor  did  he  stir  when  Dick 
entered,  and,  turning  up  the  light,  stood  looking  down 
at  him.  Irresolution,  inefficiency,  and  commonplace 
limitation  lay  on  the  sleeping  face  in  helpless  exposure ; 
but  there  was  also  the  pathos  of  emaciation,  some 
sweetness,  and  peace. 

It  annoyed  Dick  that  anything  so  incompetent,  so 
manifestly  helpless  by  reason  of  circumstance,  as  well 
as  through  weakness  of  nature,  should  be  at  his  mercy ; 
but  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  wake  him,  and  Arthur's 
eyes  flew  open  and  stared,  incredulous  and  afraid. 

"  You  !  "  he  whispered.  He  seemed  incapable  of  mo 
tion,  and  as  though  hypnotized  by  the  powerful  man 
above  him. 

"  Why  have  you  come  ?  "  he  asked,  his  lips  feeling 
their  way  slowly  to  the  words. 

"  When  you  are  thoroughly  awake  and  convinced  I 
am  not  a  nightmare,  we  will  talk  it  over."  Dick  stood 
near  the  fire,  with  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  and 
spoke  with  the  rough,  uncompromising  strength  that 
he  had  learned  in  dealing  with  humanity's  brute  forces. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  asked  Arthur. 
224 


UNCHARTED  WATERS 

"  I  understand  that  you  expect  to  marry  Miss  Law 
rence  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Arthur  stared  silently,  and  Dick  saw 
the  old  dread  and  entreaty  gather  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  have  come  back,  —  I  might  have  known  "  — 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  might.    So  it  is  true  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  That  you  are  thinking  of  marrying  Miss  Lawrence." 

Arthur  seemed  to  hesitate  before  he  answered. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  for  several  years." 

"  Then  it 's  about  time  for  you  to  think  of  something 
else." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  do  anything." 

"  You  are  not  "  — 

"  You  are  going  to  do  it  all." 

u  J  " 

"  You  are  going  upstairs  now,  to  tell  her  the  truth." 

A  wave  of  passion  swept  the  blood  to  Arthur's  face, 
and  then  as  suddenly  left  him  dangerously  white. 

"You  can't  mean  that!  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can,"  Dick  assured  him. 

"  It  is  impossible.  I  can't  do  a  thing  like  that  now." 
He  buried  his  head  in  his  hauds.  "  I  must  think,"  he 
muttered.  But  suddenly  he  rose,  and  walked  to  and 
fro  with  the  hurried,  uncertain  movements  of  a  fright 
ened  animal  that  seeks  escape. 

"  I  must  think.  You  have  me  at  a  disadvantage.  If 
you  can't  consider  me,  consider  her.  Think  of  what  it 
will  be  to  her  if  she  loves  me." 

225 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  don't  believe  she  loves  you,  and  if  she  does  she 
had  better  get  over  it.  No  good  nor  happiness  could 
come  to  a  woman  from  loving  you." 

"  You  have  me  at  a  disadvantage.  I  am  not  myself," 
continued  Arthur,  still  moving  about  the  room.  "  I  am 
not  myself.  I  am  a  sick  man." 

"  If  it  comes  to  that,  so  am  I,"  answered  Dick,  who 
was  disgusted  to  find  excitement  mastering  him  so  that 
his  hand  shook  visibly  on  the  mantelpiece,  "  and  in 
no  mood  to  stand  your  weakened  procrastination.  Go 
up,  and  be  done  with  it." 

"  You  look  ill,"  said  Arthur,  as  he  paused  in  front 
of  Dick  with  sudden  and  eager  entreaty  in  his  face. 
"  We  are  neither  of  us  ourselves.  Wait,  Copeland, 
wait  till  we  can  think  it  out  quietly !  You  were  good 
to  me  once  —  you  helped  me  save  myself." 

"  I  helped  you  damn  yourself." 

"You  helped  me  save  myself,"  continued  Arthur. 
"  Help  me  again.  My  love  was  making  a  man  of  me. 
I  know  I  have  been  a  cad,  but  this  is  my  one  chance. 
I  dare  say  I  am  not  worth  a  chance,  but  don't  take  it 
away,  Copeland.  Leave  me  that,  and  the  happiness 
which  you  made  it  possible  for  me  to  have." 

He  pleaded  rapidly,  feverishly,  without  animosity, 
with  the  frank,  winning  ingenuousness  of  a  child,  so 
that  Dick  felt  and  wondered  at  the  charm  that  could 
look  through  the  eyes  of  such  abjectness. 

"  I  can't  think  you  will  ask  this  of  me  when  you  have 
thought  it  over,"  he  continued.  "  I  can't  think  you 
would  ask  a  man  to  tell  the  woman  he  loves  the  things 

226 


UNCHARTED  WATEBS 

about  himself  you  want  me  to  tell.  Why,  it  would  be 
more  than  flesh  and  blood  could  bear.  She  is  n't  a 
woman  one  can  lose.  You  know  her,  —  I  used  to  think 
you  cared  for  her  yourself  until  you  went  off  without 
explaining.  You  know  something  of  what  she  is,  though 
no  one  can  know  her  as  I  do.  I  tell  you  I  cannot  lose 
her  like  this.  You  can't  mean  it.  Wait  and  think  it 
over,  Copeland.  Wait,  for  God's  sake  !  " 

Dick  gave  a  movement  of  strong  disgust. 

"  Quit  begging,  Davenport,  and  save  a  rag  or  two  of 
self-respect,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  here  to  change  my 
mind." 

Then  Arthur  dropped  into  a  chair.  He  looked  at 
Dick  with  fear  and  wonder,  and  wiped  his  forehead 
with  his  hand. 

"  My  God,  Copeland  !  you  are  a  hard  man,"  he  mut 
tered.  "  I  am  not  sure  you  are  not  a  worse  man  than  I 
am.  I  could  not  find  the  heart  to  stand  up  against  a 
fellow  like  that." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  could,"  said  Dick. 

Arthur  breathed  heavily. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  her  yourself  ?  " 

"  Because  it  suits  me  better  to  have  you  tell  her." 

"You  love  her!"  cried  Arthur,  in  sudden  and  vio 
lent  excitement.  "  You  love  her !  What  a  fool  I  have 
been !  I  thought  you  were  working  out  one  of  your 
infernal  ideals  of  abstract  justice.  You  love  her,  and 
that  is  why  you  want  to  take  her  away  from  me !  But 
it 's  too  late  !  You  can't  have  her  !  I  did  n't  tell  you  be 
fore  because  I  thought  it  might  make  you  more  deter- 

227 


THE   EVASION 

mined  than  ever ;  but  you  can't  have  her,  Copeland. 
To  begin  with,  she  hates  the  sound  of  your  name  "  — 

Dick's  voice,  still  and  contemptuous,  cut  sharply  into 
the  feverish  agitation  of  Arthur's  speech. 

"  You  pitiful  coward !  "  he  said. 

"  You  love  her !  "  repeated  Arthur,  trembling  with 
anger.  "  You  dare  to  love  her,  and  come  here  " 

Then  Dick  strode  to  Arthur's  side,  and,  slipping  a 
hand  under  his  collar,  jerked  the  limp  figure  to  its  feet. 

"  Get  up,  you  infernal  white-livered  scoundrel !  "  he 
cried  savagely.  "  You  have  skulked  and  shivered  long 
enough.  Go  and  tell  her  the  truth.  When  she  knows 
you  for  a  cheat  and  a  coward,  you  may  come  down 
again.  Go  now,  before  I  give  you  the  thrashing  that 's 
too  good  for  you." 

Arthur  staggered  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  but 
there  he  paused. 

"There  's  some  one  at  the  door,"  he  whispered,  shiv 
ering  violently. 

"You  may  wait  till  they  go.  I  locked  it  for  that 
purpose,"  said  Dick. 

There  was  a  pause  while  the  door-handle  was  rattled 
softly,  and  the  flame  of  Arthur's  ineffectual  anger  sank 
till  the  old  panic  and  entreaty  lay  naked  and  abject  in 
his  eyes. 

"  She  has  come,"  he  said,  still  whispering. 

"  Arthur,  Arthur  !  "  Gladys's  voice,  sweet  and  light, 
came  from  beyond  the  locked  door.  "  Wake  up,  you 
lazy  boy  !  " 

"  She  has  come.   My  God !  " 
228 


UNCHARTED  WATERS 

Dick  squared  his  shoulders. 

"  Copeland  —  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  had  better  stay  here  and  see  you  put  it 
through,"  said  Dick. 

"  Arthur  !  "  she  called  insistently. 

"  I  can't  do  it,  Copeland,"  — his  voice  broke.  "  I  love 
her.  You  must  tell  her  what  you  will.  I  married  her 
last  month." 

He  walked  unsteadily  to  the  door  and  fumbled  with 
the  key. 

"It  turns  to  the  left,"  called  Gladys.  "Helpless 
boy ! "  she  added,  and  her  laughter,  gay  and  soft, 
drifted  into  the  room  as  the  door  opened  and  she  en 
tered,  fresh  and  radiant  from  a  walk  in  the  autumn 
wind.  She  was  dressed  in  a  walking-suit  of  golden 
brown,  not  so  bright  but  that  her  hair  was  brighter  ; 
and  there  were  raindrops  on  her  hair  and  face,  and  on 
the  violets  she  carried. 

"  Is  it  kind  to  lock  me  out  when  I  have  been  all  over 
the  city  hunting  for  the  book  you  wanted  ?"  she  con 
tinued  gayly.  "  Is  it  kind,  or  "  —  and  then  she  saw 
Dick. 

There  was  an  immediate  silence.  He  never  forgot 
the  sudden  arrestation  of  her  motion  and  breath,  or 
how  the  mirth,  tenderness,  and  color  left  her  as  he 
looked.  And,  though  she  stood  upright,  he  seemed  to 
know  that  something  within  her  reeled  under  the  shock 
of  this  meeting. 

For  a  moment  his  own  mind  swung  giddily.  She 
was  married !  Emotion,  primeval  in  its  cruelty  and 

229 


THE  EVASION 

violence,  bore  down  upon  him.  She  was  married !  But, 
a  rebel  against  social  law,  her  marriage  did  not  of  itself 
set  the  seal  to  his  silence.  He  tried  to  think,  while  the 
world  continued  to  swing  perilously  before  his  eyes.  It 
would  be  time  enough  by  and  by  to  go  through  hell  on 
his  own  account ;  for  the  present,  he  must  think,  and 
think  clearly,  for  her.  Union  between  this  particular 
man  and  woman  was  an  abomination,  —  that  much  was 
clear.  The  law  which  bound  them  was  arbitrary,  with 
out  justice  or  truth.  But  she  had  been  happy  when  she 
entered  the  room.  She  had  been  radiant  with  gayety 
and  tenderness  till  they  withered  under  his  presence. 
It  was  probable  that  she  loved  her  husband,  intoler 
able  and  incredible  as  the  fact  might  seem ;  and  if  the 
truth  about  him  freed  her  of  love,  was  she  one  to  allow 
it  to  release  her  of  obligation  ?  Would  she  not  hold 
herself  bound  as  before,  but  to  misery  and  degrada 
tion? 

He  had  left  her  years  ago,  and  he  could  do  it  again 
if  need  be;  but  the  first  time  he  had  been  helped  by 
pride  and  anger  and  boyish  defiance.  Now  there  was 
neither  pride  nor  anger  to  sustain  him,  nor  yet  the 
pitiable,  the  laughable,  the  tragically  far-reaching  defi 
ance  of  his  youth.  Moreover,  a  growing  and  a  horrid 
weakness  was  at  the  pit  of  his  physical  being,  and  it 
seemed  just  possible  that  he  might  experience  the  final 
ignominy  of  fainting  in  her  presence. 

She  had,  a  moment  ago,  been  a  happy  woman.  She 
would  be  happy  again  if  he  kept  his  silence  and  went 
out  of  her  life.  When  Dick  had  come  to  this  conclu- 

230 


UNCHARTED  WATERS 

sion  he  knew  that  he  was  at  the  end  of  the  matter,  but 
in  the  meantime  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  bear 
himself  as  a  man. 

If  she  had  looked  at  him  then,  she  might  have 
recognized  the  hunger  and  the  love  and  the  truth  in 
his  eyes,  but  she  did  not  look.  During  the  brief  mo 
ments  in  which  Dick  made  his  decision  her  face  had 
frozen  slowly,  and  her  eyes  were  upon  her  husband's 
face. 

Arthur  breathed  heavily,  and  there  was  a  wild  agita 
tion  in  his  manner.  But  the  moments  passed,  and  Dick 
said  nothing. 

"  I  thought  that  you  were  resting  upstairs,"  Arthur 
ventured  feebly,  breaking  the  dreadful  silence. 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  you  could  have  matters  for 
private  discussion  with  Mr.  Copeland,"  she  said,  and 
her  voice,  like  her  face,  seemed  frozen.  "  I  will  come 
back  when  you  are  at  liberty." 

As  she  turned  her  violets  dropped,  and  Dick  stooped 
mechanically  to  pick  them  up.  They  had  fallen  in 
the  shadow,  and,  as  he  searched  for  them  a  little  blindly, 
he  was  obliged  to  support  himself  by  holding  on  to  the 
edge  of  the  table  with  his  hand.  But  he  rose  safely, 
and  as  she  stood  partly  turned  from  him  and  would 
not  see  the  flowers  when  he  handed  them  to  her,  he  laid 
them  on  the  table. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  your  husband  which  need 
be  a  secret,"  he  said  steadily,  —  "nothing  further  to 
say  to  him  of  any  sort."  He  was  gone  before  either  of 
them  could  answer. 

231 


THE   EVASION 

Arthur  dropped  into  his  chair  muttering  feverish 
and  incoherent  things,  while  his  wife  began  to  draw  off 
her  gloves  with  hands  that  trembled  intolerably. 

"  I  am  surprised  that  you  should  hold  any  communi 
cation  with  Richard  Copeland,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not 
inquire  the  cause  of  your  interview,  but  I  must  ask  you 
not  to  see  him  again,  or  to  mention  his  name  in  my 
presence." 

Arthur  laughed  hysterically. 

"  You  may  be  jolly  well  sure  that  the  interview  was 
not  of  my  seeking,"  he  said. 

Gladys's  words  had  been  brave  and  cool,  but  her 
hands  still  shook  pitiably.  And  now  she  looked  at  her 
husband's  bowed  figure  with  critical  and  unsympathetic 
eyes,  consciously  recognizing  the  general  inadequacy 
of  the  man.  Was  this  because  Dick,  for  a  brief  moment, 
had  stood  in  the  same  room  with  him  ?  Watching  Ar 
thur,  she  asked  herself  what  had  become  of  the  protect 
ing  tenderness  which  she  had  felt  for  him  since  her 
marriage,  and  which,  because  of  her  woman's  heart,  had 
brought  her  some  measure  of  happiness.  What  had 
become  of  her  poise  and  quiet  affection  ?  Their  absence 
left  her  dismayed  and  afraid,  as  though  she  were  sud 
denly  adrift  upon  uncharted  waters.  Stripped  of  this 
consciousness  of  sacred  and  willing  obligation  to  her 
marriage,  life  stood  unredeemed,  sordid,  and  unaccount 
ably  imperiled.  Was  this  also  because  Dick  had  stood 
in  the  room  ? 

"  You  knew  that  he  loved  you  ?  "  said  Arthur,  with 
feverish  emphasis.  "  You  have  always  known  it !  How 

232 


UNCHARTED  WATERS 

do  I  know  that  you  would  not  have  married  him  in 
stead  of  me  if  he  had  not  —  if  he  "  — 

"  I  do  not  suppose  that  you  wish  to  insult  me,"  said 
Gladys,  "  so  I  can  only  assume  that  you  are  tempora 
rily  irresponsible  for  what  you  say." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  without  lifting  his 
head.  "  The  fact  is  that  I  am  —  I  am  unstrung.  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  he  repeated  humbly. 

Then  her  face  changed.  She  went  to  him  slowly,  and 
stood  by  his  chair,  looking  down  at  him  with  doubt 
and  misery  in  her  eyes.  It  was  as  though  she  were 
seeking  an  uncertain  refuge. 

"  You  and  I  cannot  afford  to  quarrel,"  she  said. 

"  No,  no  !  "  he  cried,  with  his  head  still  in  his  hands. 

"  Have  I  made  you  happy  so  far  ?  " 

He  sought  her  hand,  and  kissed  it  violently. 

"  Can  I  go  on  making  you  happy  ?  "  Her  voice  be 
gan  to  tremble  with  the  weight  of  a  yearning  that  was 
for  something  far  beyond  the  husband  at  her  side,  and 
she  knelt  swiftly  and  passionately  by  his  chair. 

"  Can  I  always  make  you  happy  ?  I  want  to  be  sure 
—  sure !  " 

"My  darling!   Yes!" 

"  No,  do  not  kiss  me  yet.  I  want  to  be  sure,  because 
I  have  staked  my  life  on  it.  If  I  cannot  do  that,  I 
might  as  well  not  be  alive  at  all "  — 

"  You  love  me  at  last !   You  love  me  "  — 

"  Can  I  do  it,  Arthur  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  billion  times  yes." 

"  Hush  —  hush.  Now  you  may  kiss  me.  You  are 
233 


THE   EVASION 

feverish  again,  and  it  is  my  fault,  poor  boy  !  It  is  my 
fault,  —  I  am  sorry.  I  did  not  mean  —  I  was  upset  at 
finding  that  man  here.  He  must  never  come  again,  for 
we  must  make  a  success  of  our  marriage.  I  do  not 
dare,"  —  she  shivered  in  his  arms,  —  "  I  do  not  dare  not 
to  make  a  success  of  it,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LAYING    THE    CORNER-STONE 


1ST] 


EARLY  two  years  later,  Mr.  Aldrich  and  his  ward 
sat  facing  each  other  across  a  common  deal  table,  which 
was  the  principal  article  of  furniture  in  a  cabin  where 
Dick  had  elected  to  pass  the  summer.  It  was  his  birth 
day  and  the  occasion  of  his  formal  coming  into  posses 
sion  of  a  fortune. 

"  I  think  that  is  the  last,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich,  pushing 
a  railroad  certificate  across  the  table. 

Dick  compared  it  with  a  list  he  held,  and  acqui 
esced. 

"  And  you  verified  the  bulk  of  it  that  I  deposited  in 
your  safety  vaults.  If  you  will  sign  this,  we  can  be  rid 
of  each  other  for  all  time." 

While  Dick  signed  in  silence,  and  then  locked  up 
his  certificates,  Mr.  Aldrich  investigated  the  aspect  of 
the  room.  The  table  at  which  he  sat,  another  table  used 
as  a  desk  and  covered  with  a  disorderly  litter  of  papers, 
several  chairs,  and  some  shelves  put  roughly  together 
to  hold  the  books  that  overflowed  onto  a  carpetless 
floor,  —  that  was  all. 

Outside,  a  young  growth  of  maple  and  oak  trees 
crowded  up  to  the  narrow  window-panes ;  but  in  front 
of  the  door  a  clearing  had  been  made,  which  sloped 

235 


THE   EVASION 

briefly  downwards  to  the  ample  and  tranquil  flow  of  a 
great  river. 

"  It  is  a  singular  abode  for  a  millionaire,"  remarked 
Mr.  Aldrich  dryly. 

"I  didn't  expect  you  to  care  for  it,  exactly,"  an 
swered  Dick,  pocketing  his  bunch  of  keys,  and  turning 
to  his  guest,  who  was  sniffing  the  air  suspiciously. 

"  I  see  that  the  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number 
is  compatible  with  the  use  of  tobacco,"  he  said. 

"Shall  I  give  you  a  light?"  asked  Dick,  ignoring 
this  opening  for  argument.  "I  can't  offer  you  any 
cigars,  for  I  only  use  a  pipe." 

"  And  I  only  use  my  own  cigars.  But  I  will  have  a 
light.  —  Thanks.  And  now  that  I  no  longer  have  the 
shadow  of  a  legal  right  to  ask  you  questions,  I  should 
like  to  put  a  few." 

Dick  intimated  that  he  might  ask  as  many  as  he 
liked,  and  sat  in  the  doorway  with  his  feet  on  the 
ground  outside,  while  he  filled  his  pipe.  Mr.  Aldrich, 
noting  the  strong  lines  of  his  figure  showing  through  a 
workingman's  shirt,  the  brown,  sinewy  throat  rising 
from  the  loose  collar,  and  the  powerful  head  above  with 
its  shock  of  coarse  black  hair,  and  its  bony,  roughly 
moulded  features,  sighed  suddenly  and  impatiently, 
for  Dick  seemed  to  him  like  some  youthful  Titan 
spending  his  strength  on  futile  issues. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  only  have  one  life  ? "  he 
asked. 

Dick  continued  to  press  tobacco  into  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe. 

236 


LAYING  THE   CORNER-STONE 

"  I  dare  say  that  I  shall  think  one  is  enough  by  the 
time  I  get  through  with  it,"  he  answered. 

"  And  do  you  know  that  life  is  short,  and  that  there 
are  beautiful  things  in  it,  —  great  pictures,  great  music, 
and  great  and  beautiful  countries  to  visit,  while  you 
live  in  a  pine  cabin  of  one  room  ?  " 

"Four  rooms,"  corrected  Dick,  with  an  inscrutable 
face.  "  A  study,  kitchen,  bedroom,  and  room  for  Mrs. 
Gary." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Gary?" 

"  You  would  call  her  my  servant." 

"  What  do  you  call  her  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Gary." 

"Ah!    Is  she  —  er — young?" 

Dick  turned  to  Mr.  Aldrich  with  one  of  his  unex 
pected  and  brilliant  smiles. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  Her  husband  used  to  beat 
her,  sometimes  because  he  was  drunk,  sometimes  be 
cause  she  was  ugly,  sometimes  because  she  made  him 
bad  bread.  She  makes  me  bad  bread,  but  as  I  do  not 
drink,  and  am  not  her  husband,  and  do  not  care 
whether  she  is  ugly  or  not,  I  treat  her  decently  and 
pay  her  regularly.  The  result  is  that  she  loves  her 
husband,  counts  the  days  until  he  returns  from  the 
penitentiary,  and  can  barely  tolerate  me." 

"  Why  do  you  waste  yourself  on  them,  Richard  ?  " 

Dick  was  silent  a  moment  before  answering. 

"  Because  I  have  seen  the  things  a  man  cannot  see 
and  forget,"  he  said  finally. 

"  But  they  are  a  degraded  and  brutalized  lot." 
237 


THE   EVASION 

"  There  is  degradation  and  brutality  among  them  ; 
there  is  also  unthinkable  crime,  and  unspeakable  dis 
ease.  There  are  millions  of  them  born  into  a  heritage 
of  moral  and  physical  filth.  They  are  a  sink  of  corrup 
tion.  They  are  loathsome,  hideous,  piteous  beyond  all 
power  of  telling,  —  seeing  them  the  very  good  man 
might  well  wish  to  curse  his  God  and  die.  Their  easi 
est  recreation  is  sin,  actual  joy  of  living  can  only  come 
to  them  from  intoxication,  —  and  these  things  are  to 
the  everlasting  shame  of  their  oppressors !  " 

"Of  whom  I  am  one,"  suggested  Mr.  Aldrich 
suavely.  "  And  why  are  not  you,  as  a  capitalist,  an 
other?" 

"  I  do  not  expect  to  remain  a  capitalist." 

"  Good  Lord,  Richard !  what  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

"  It  is  practically  done.  I  have  bought  out  the  cot 
ton  mills  that  you  can  see  if  you  go  down  to  the  edge 
of  the  river,  and  every  private  enterprise,  such  as  the 
drugstore,  grocery,  liquor  saloons,  and  landed  property 
in  connection  with  the  mills.  I  am  going  to  run  them 
my  own  way." 

"  Is  n't  that  a  pretty  fair  imitation  of  monopoly  ?  " 

"  My  own  way  will  be  to  own  no  greater  share  of 
the  concern  than  any  of  the  others  who  work  for  the 
good  of  the  whole." 

Mr.  Aldrich  groaned. 

"  You  are  going  to  give  your  property  away  ?  " 

"  It  is  on  the  face  of  things  that  the  property  is  not 
mine  to  give,  and  never  was." 

238 


LAYING   THE   CORNER-STONE 

Mr.  Aldrich  wiped  his  forehead.  "You  will  be  a 
pauper,"  he  said.  "  I  never  believed  you  would  really 
do  it.  It 's  the  thing  Fourier,  Saint-Simon,  and  other 
madmen  attempted  and  failed  in.  Why  can't  you  take 
a  lesson  by  them  ?  You  can't  have  an  ideal  community 
till  you  have  ideal  characters.  You  are  fighting  wind 
mills,  boy,  —  you  are  fighting  windmills." 

"  I  do  not  expect  an  ideal  community,  but  I  want 
something  nearer  than  what  we  have.  A  man  should 
have  a  chance  to  reach  his  full  stature,  which  he  has  n't 
at  present,  being  occupied  chiefly  with  keeping  body 
and  soul  together.  I  have  never  been  able  to  persuade 
myself  that  I  should  not  be  a  wife-beater  if  I  had 
been  born  and  bred  among  the  classes  of  the  unskilled 
laborers,  who  only  receive  sufficient  return  for  their 
labor  to  keep  them  in  good  working  condition.  Every 
thing  over  and  above  that  goes  to  increase  the  luxu 
ries  of  those  already  wallowing  in  them.  In  other 
words,  those  who  sow  in  blood  and  degradation  are 
not  those  who  reap.  There  you  have  the  crude,  raw 
fact,  the  shame  of  our  economic  civilization." 

Mr.  Aldrich  continued  to  wipe  his  brow. 

"  You  will  be  a  pauper,"  he  said.  "  You  have  made 
away  with  a  good  deal  of  money  in  the  past  five  years. 
Has  it  all  gone  in  experiments  of  this  sort  ?  " 

"  There  was  n't  enough  of  it.  At  one  time  I  bought 
out  some  liquor  saloons  and  established  centres  of 
temperance  instead  of  alcoholic  drinks." 

"  What  became  of  them  ?  " 

"  They  were  burned  and  otherwise  destroyed  during 
239 


THE   EVASION 

the  labor  disturbances.  Carrie  Nation  could  not  have 
used  her  hatchet  to  better  advantage." 

"  Ah !  "  Mr.  Aldrich  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with 
an  expression  of  complacency.  "  What  was  the  matter? 
The  men  did  n't  like  the  drink,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Dick  grinned.  "  It  was  poor  stuff,"  he  admitted. 
"  If  you  had  been  willing  to  sell  out  those  few  hundred 
shares  of  my  Illinois  Central  I  could  have  done  it 
better." 

"  If  anything  could  have  made  me  firmer  in  my 
refusal  than  I  was,  it  would  have  been  the  knowledge 
that  you  were  going  to  invest  them  in  temperance 
drinks.  I  am  glad  you  failed.  It  was  a  good  lesson,  — 
may  you  have  more  of  the  same  kind  before  it 's  too 
late.  They  hacked  your  wretched  establishments  up, 
you  say  ?  Good  boys !  My  sympathies  were  never 
enlisted  on  the  side  of  the  laboring  men  before." 

"  They  may  be  again,"  said  Dick,  "  for  there  is  going 
to  be  nothing  but  temperance  drink  in  my  village." 

"  The  devil  there  is  n't !  Then  I  see  the  first  snag  of 
the  many  that  you  will  break  up  on.  How  about  the 
church  ?  " 

"  It  is  to  be  turned  into  a  lecture  hall.  There  may 
be  some  lay  sermons  given  there,  along  with  the  lec 
tures  on  social  and  physical  science,  and  all  subjects 
that  encourage  knowledge  of  and  reverence  for  the  life 
of  man  and  nature." 

"  Good  Lord,  Richard,  you  will  never  make  it  go ! 
They  will  be  smuggling  whiskey  in  boot-boxes,  keep 
ing  Virgins  in  woodsheds,  and  holding  prayer-meetings 

240 


LAYING   THE   CORNER-STONE 

in  cellars  before  the  end  of  the  first  six  months.  A 
community  where  man  is  deprived  of  his  drink  and 
his  religion  won't  live  a  year." 

"  A  community  purged  of  its  vice  and  superstition 
ought  to  survive  and  overtop  all  others." 

"  I  accept  your  amendment,  but  it  will  never  work. 
The  world  is  n't  ready  for  a  Utopia  yet,  and  a  revival 
now  and  then  might  almost  persuade  them  into  liking 
temperance  drinks.  Better  give  them  their  own  way  in 
religion,  Richard." 

"I  intend  that  they  shall  go  the  right  way,"  said 
Dick,  tranquilly  obstinate. 

"  But  if  each  one  has  share  and  share  alike,  what  is 
to  prevent  their  overturning  your  plan  ?  " 

".  I  have  provided  against  that  in  a  measure.  As  I 
say,  no  one  is  to  come  in  unless  he  likes  it,  and  his 
share  of  the  property  only  belongs  to  him  while  he 
falls  in  with  the  general  working  scheme  of  the 
community.  As  soon  as  any  one  breaks  through  he 
forfeits  his  property,  which  is  returned  to  the  general 
treasury,  —  the  general  treasury  being  myself  in  case 
they  mutually  disband." 

"  But  supposing  they  destroy  the  works  ?  You  are 
protected  by  insurance,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Insurance  companies  are  among  the  economic  vam 
pires.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  them." 

"  Richard,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich  solemnly.  "  If  you 
were  a  madman  you  could  not  contrive  your  own  ruin 
more  effectually.  You  will  never  come  out  of  this  thing 
with  your  life  and  your  money." 

241 


THE   EVASION 

Dick  smoked  on  contentedly.  In  spite  of  his  acri 
mony,  Mr.  Aldrich's  immaculate  person  and  cultivated 
speech  were  a  distinct  satisfaction  to  one  who  had  not 
spoken  to  any  of  his  own  kind  for  many  months. 

"  If  there  are  no  churches,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  marrying  them  ?  "  asked  the  older  man.  "  But 
as  a  socialist  I  do  not  suppose  that  you  approve  of  the 
marriage  ceremony." 

"  I  do  not  subscribe  to  any  one  set  of  socialistic  ideas, 
and  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  not  an  infamous  law  which 
binds  two  people  together  against  their  will,  and  when 
further  union  can  only  result  in  the  degradation  and 
despair  of  one  or  both  of  them.  But  it  is  necessary  for 
the  preservation  of  social  order  and  efficiency  that  a 
man  and  woman  electing  to  pass  their  lives  together, 
and  bring  up  children,  should  be  bound  by  something 
stronger  than  their  own  fidelity.  If  all  men  and  women 
were  faithful,  there  need  be  no  formal  marriage  ser 
vice.  The  service  is  purely  a  question  of  expediency, 
but  as  such  it  is  still  of  high  importance." 

"  Is  that  why  you  balked  unexpectedly  at  a  crucial 
moment  about  two  years  ago  ?  " 

Dick's  face  was  without  expression,  and  he  made  no 
reply. 

"  You  were  a  fool,  Richard." 

And  still  Dick  did  not  reply. 

"  They  have  been  in  Europe  ever  since  their  mar 
riage,"  continued  Mr.  Aldrich ;  "  but  I  believe  they 
have  returned  now  for  good,  and  are  building  a  house 
—  in  the  country." 

242 


LAYING  THE  CORNER-STONE 

Involuntarily  he  looked  at  a  hillside  some  distance 
away,  where  the  ground  was  evidently  being  cleared 
for  a  laro-e  estate.  Then  he  looked  at  the  motionless 

O 

face  of  the  man  who  sat  in  the  doorway,  and  decided 
to  keep  his  counsel. 

"  Their  house  is  a  social  centre,"  he  said ;  "  their  en 
tertainments  are  the  most  perfect,  their  carriages  the 
handsomest,  their  automobiles  the  swiftest  this  side  of 
New  York.  Mr.  Davenport  is  the  handsomest  and  most 
genial  of  hosts,  as  his  wife  is  the  most  attractive  of 
hostesses.  Some  fashionable  papers  have  spoken  of  her 
as  the  best-dressed  woman  of  two  continents.  At  a 
certain  court  ball  in  London  she  wore  pale  green  and 
silver,  with  emeralds  in  her  hair.  The  king  asked  to 
meet  her  and  talked  to  her  alone  for  just  thirty  minutes 
by  the  clock.  If  I  were  to  add  that  happiness  has 
nothing  to  do  with  any  of  these  things,  I  should  be 
disgustingly  trite,  —  a  tendency  to  moralize  seems  to 
increase  with  gout  and  years,  —  we  must  all  beware 
of  it,  Richard,  yourself  most  of  all." 

Dick  did  not  reply,  and  sat  looking  at  the  river  while 
his  pipe  grew  cold  in  his  hand.  It  could  not  be  said 
that  his  face  had  moved;  but  it  had  changed  subtly, 
and  Mr.  Aldrich  forgot  the  reformer  and  the  fighter 
of  windmills,  —  one  whom  some  would  laugh  at,  some 
would  praise,  and  many  would  blame,  —  for  he  saw 
simply  a  proud  and  lonely  man. 

When  Mr.  Aldrich  rose  to  go,  Dick  walked  with  him 
for  a  part  of  the  way,  which  lay  through  meagre  growths 
of  black  pines  growing  by  the  river's  edge.  They 

243 


THE   EVASION 

said  little  before  reaching  the  spot  where  the  older  man 
was  to  meet  his  carriage ;  but  then,  with  his  hand  on 
Dick's  shoulder,  he  paused  and  looked  at  him  somewhat 
wistfully. 

"  I  suppose  this  is  the  parting  of  the  ways  for  us  in 
good  earnest,"  he  said.  "  And  you  must  be  glad  to  be 
rid  of  me,  boy  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  supposed  it  would  be  the  other  way 
round,"  said  Dick. 

"  We  have  been  an  infernal  nuisance  to  each  other 
for  a  good  many  years.  You  have  caused  me  more  — 
more  annoyance,  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon 
it,  than  any  one  else  —  with  one  exception  —  in  the 
world !  " 

Dick  smiled. 

"  What  sticks  me,"  said  the  other  irrelevantly,  "  is 
what  you  are  doing  it  for.  You  could  n't  more  consist 
ently  do  what  you  think  right  at  the  expense  of  your 
own  happiness  and  well-being  if  you  were  working  for 
your  eternal  salvation  according  to  the  precepts  laid 
down  in  the  Ten  Commandments  and  the  Apostles' 
Creed.  What  constrains  you  to  do  right  if  you  don't 
believe  in  a  hereafter  ?  What  has  prevented  you  from 
breaking  the  moral  laws  and  having  a  good  time  ? 
What  is  good  without  God  ?  " 

"  You  forget  humanity,"  answered  Dick.  "  Through 
strife  and  agony  and  during  millions  of  years  men  have 
evolved  certain  laws  for  the  preservation  of  their  lives 
and  happiness.  They  have  evolved  them  first  as  men 
evolved  thumbs,  because  they  needed  them.  These  laws 

244 


LAYING  THE  CORNER-STONE 

are  called  the  Ten  Commandments ;  and  there  is  one 
other,  the  greatest  of  all,  given  us  by  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
which  is,  '  Love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself.'  I  call  this  the 
greatest  of  all  because  the  others  are  included  in  it; 
and  perhaps  I  should  call  it  the  only  one,  for  if  it  were 
kept  there  would  be  no  need  of  the  others.  Stealing, 
murder,  envy,  lust  are  wrong,  because  they  cause  suf 
fering,  because  they  menace  the  happiness  of  the  com 
munity.  Every  time  a  law  is  broken  some  one  suffers, 
and  usually  more  than  one ;  so  we  cannot  guard  this 
morality,  this  good,  too  sacredly." 

"  So  it 's  only  for  others,  after  all,  that  you  do  these 
things.  Well,  well !  "  Mr.  Aldrich  looked  into  the  sky 
flooded  with  light  from  the  falling  sun.  "  But  why  do 
you  care  so  much  for  the  others  ?  " 

"  The  difficulty  would  be  not  to  care." 

"  But  why,  Richard  ?  Why  ?   I  don't  care  for  them." 

Dick  also  looked  into  the  sunset,  and  gave  no 
reply. 

"So  you  have  a  creed  after  all;  and  it's  nothing 
more,  in  spite  of  your  talk  of  intellectual  emancipation, 
than  the  essence  of  Christianity." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Dick.  "  Christianity  reaches  the 
secret  of  the  world's  need  more  nearly  than  any  of 
the  religions.  '  Love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself,'  "  he  re 
peated  gravely,  —  "that  is  the  alpha  and  omega  of 
life,  the  force  that  keeps  human  beings  from  mutual 
destruction  as  the  force  of  gravity  holds  the  stars  in 
place." 

"  Boy  !  boy !  "  cried  the  other.  "  I  believe  that  you 
245 


THE  EVASION 

are  as  great  a  worshiper  as  any  of  them,  even  though 
you  pretend  not  to  believe  in  God." 

"  The  strongest  evidence  of  God  is  our  need  of  Him," 
said  Dick,  "  and  that,  I  will  admit,  is  very  great."  He 
still  looked  into  the  sunset,  and  in  answer  to  the  beauty 
and  mystery  of  it  his  eyes  held  the  immeasurable  ache 
of  living,  and  the  wonder  and  sadness  that,  being  so 
much,  man  is  not  more. 

"If  the  need  of  a  thing  were  the  proof  of  its  ex 
istence  "  —  he  began,  and  paused. 

"  Kichard,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich  suddenly,  "  there  is 
that  in  you  which  makes  me  think  that  you  would 
make  a  good  preacher.  Did  you  ever  think  of  becom 
ing  one?" 

"  There  might  be  some  difficulty  in  finding  a  pulpit 
for  me,"  answered  Dick,  smiling. 

"  If  you  are  ever  within  a  mile  of  me  again,  look  me 
up,  if  it  does  n't  bore  you  too  much." 

Dick  gripped  his  hand  with  painful  heartiness ;  but 
after  that,  though  there  was  obviously  nothing  more  to 
be  said,  the  older  man  lingered. 

"  What  a  great  fellow  you  are !  "  he  said,  passing  his 
hand  over  the  muscles  of  Dick's  arm  and  shoulder.  "  I 
wish  things  might  have  been  different  with  you,  my 
boy,  —  I  wish  it  very  much." 

Dick  made  no  pretense  of  misunderstanding  him. 

"  It  was  the  only  way,"  he  said. 

"  The  only  way  for  you ;  there  would  have  been 
another  for  me.  Well,  I  must  go,  or  I  shall  lose  my 
temper.  Good-by,  and  good  luck.  If  I  can  ever  do  any- 

246 


LAYING  THE    CORNER-STONE 

thing  for  you,  I  will,  —  but  for  yourself,  mind,  not  for 
the  unsavory  masses.  It 's  my  opinion  that  before  long 
you  will  need  help  as  much  as  they  do,  if  not  consider 
ably  more,  Richard,  —  if  not  considerably  more." 


CHAPTER  XV 

HUSBAND    AND    WIFE 


E 


lARLY  the  following  spring  Gladys  moved  into  her 
new  home  on  the  hillside,  and  preferring  to  be  alone 
during  the  first  weeks  of  wrestling  with  carpenters  and 
decorators,  she  came  without  her  husband. 

"  She  ain't  nothin'  more  than  a  girl,"  said  one  of  the 
gardeners,  speaking  of  her.  "  Who  'd  'a'  thought  she 
had  hobnobbed  with  dooks  and  kings,  when  she  's  that 
simple,  an'  don't  dress  more  stylish  than  my  wife ! " 

"  She  has  a  look,  though,"  said  another.  "  She  ain't 
stuck  up,  but  she  has  a  kind  of  proud  and  dainty  way 
with  her  that 's  oncommon.  She 's  the  littlest  woman  I 
ever  see,  and  her  hands  was  like  flowers  till  she  began 
to  dig  in  this  here  garding ;  but  she  knows  what  she 
wants,  and  how  to  get  it.  Golly !  "  —  the  man  chuckled 
reminiscently, —  "You  should  ha'  seen  her  make  me 
dig  over  a  border  fifty  feet  long  because  I  had  put  in 
daffodils  instead  of  narcissus,  as  she  tol'  me.  There 's 
three  trunks  come  from  Paris  last  night,  and  I  reckon 
that  if  Jim  saw  what 's  inside  'em  he  would  n't  be  cal- 
'lating  that  his  wife's  bills  for  dress  was  the  same  as 
hern." 

Gladys  superintended  the  arrangements  of  her  house 
and  garden  with  unexpected  enthusiasm. 

248 


HUSBAND   AND  WIFE 

"I  think  that  I  am  going  to  love  it.  I  think  we 
are  going  to  be  happy  here,"  she  told  her  husband  on 
the  afternoon  of  his  arrival.  The  present  order  was 
only  comparative  ;  an  odor  of  fresh  paint  pervaded  the 
half-furnished  rooms,  and  packing-boxes  with  most  of 
their  contents  on  the  floor  disfigured  the  vistas  of  hall 
way  and  sitting-rooms.  Different-colored  hangings 
were  draped  provisionally  over  the  backs  of  chairs, 
and  nowhere  was  there  a  corner  that  could  invite  rest 
and  comfort.  But  spread  beneath  temporary  debris 
was  the  making  of  a  spacious  and  beautiful  home. 

"  It  has  made  me  feel  like  a  girl  again,"  she  informed 
her  husband. 

"  And  you  look  younger,  by  Jove,  you  do !  "  he  said. 
"  Give  me  a  kiss,  little  girl.  I  had  such  a  nice  one 
when  I  first  drove  up  that  I  want  another." 

Gladys  yielded  herself  good-naturedly,  nor  did  she 
withdraw  immediately  from  his  arms. 

"  I  don't  mean  that  you  ever  looked  anything  but 
young,"  continued  Arthur,  "  but  you  looked  a  bit  tired 
sometimes." 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  tired,  horribly  tired,  ever  since  — 
ever  since  the  baby  died.    You  don't  know,  Arthur  — 
no  man  can  ever  know  "  — 

Her  voice  broke,  and  he  patted  her  back  with  easy 
tenderness. 

"  There,  there !  "  he  said.  "  We  won't  talk  of  that 
our  first  night.  Poor  little  chap !  It  was  hard  to  have 
him  die ;  but  you  were  unreasonable  about  it,  —  he 
was  only  two  weeks  old,  and  we  can't  break  our  hearts 

249 


THE   EVASION 

over  the  loss  of  anything  we  have  only  had  two  weeks. 
This  would  be  a  jolly  place,  though,  to  bring  up  a 
child ! " 

"  Would  n't  it !  "  she  said,  lifting  her  head  eagerly. 
"  I  am  glad  you  thought  of  that,  Arthur.  I  am  glad 
you  thought  of  it  without  my  speaking  first,  for  I  have 
been  thinking  how  it  would  be  to  teach  —  a  child  — 
to  love  it  all,  —  I  mean  the  garden  especially,  and 
the  way  flowers  come  up  in  the  spring,  and  the 
meadows,  and  the  smell  of  the  earth  after  the  rain, 
and  the  dear  country  silences.  These  are  the  things 
I  loved  when  I  was  a  child ;  but  somehow  I  never 
cared  for  them  again  after  I  left  home  until  three 
weeks  ago,  when  I  came  up  here." 

"You  are  going  to  have  plenty  of  time  in  which 
to  enjoy  them  now,"  said  Arthur,  vaguely  interested. 
"  How  about  the  bachelors'  quarters  ?  I  should  like 
to  see  them  before  dinner.  And  can't  we  dine  soon  ? 
That  ride  up  from  town  has  given  me  a  fierce  hun- 
ger." 

After  dinner  coffee  was  served  on  the  terrace  which 
overlooked  meadows  and  woods  and  a  gently  flowing 
line  of  hills.  A  river,  wide,  calm,  self-sufficing  as  in 
evitable  law,  wound  through  the  centre  of  the  land 
scape  and  lost  itself  in  the  woods  on  the  southern 
horizon. 

The  evening  was  warm,  and  Gladys  had  chosen  to 
wear  a  girlish  white  muslin  dress  in  honor  of  her  hus 
band's  return.  Her  bright  hair,  not  elaborately  ar 
ranged  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  see  it,  was  twisted 

250 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 

in  a  knot  at  the  back  of  her  neck.  The  loosened  ten 
drils  curled  lovingly  about  her  ears,  and  the  small- 
featured  face  was  girlishly  frail. 

Arthur  tilted  his  chair  back  against  an  ancient  col 
umn  of  Italian  marble  which  had  come  from  Europe 
the  week  before  and  was  waiting  its  final  disposition. 
He  inhaled  his  tobacco  smoke  luxuriously,  and  looked 
at  the  sky,  while  his  wife  watched  him  with  quiet, 
observant  eyes. 

He  was  growing  stout;  almost  insensible  tides  of 
flesh  were  stealing  up  under  his  well-browned  skin, 
blurring  the  vigor  and  clearness  of  lines  that  had  given 
force  to  his  youthful  beauty,  and  dimming  the  glamour 
that  had  surrounded  his  entire  person.  Nor  had  satis 
faction  with  his  existence  and  security  in  its  perma 
nence  agreed  with  Arthur  :  the  alchemy  that  possessed 
the  seeming  power  of  turning  his  dross  to  gold  had 
deserted  him.  He  looked  as  one  in  whom  the  higher 
emotions  were  mysteriously  cheapened,  and  his  wife 
asked  herself  if  the  happiness  which  she  had  striven  so 
earnestly  to  give  him  had  degenerated  into  mere  com 
placency. 

Soon  after  marrying  Arthur,  she  had  realized  his 
commonplaceness  of  temperament  and  lack  of  mental 
sinew,  but  she  had  resolved  that  he  should  not  sink 
while  her  hand  was  there  to  lift  him;  and  this  re 
solve  had  taken  the  form  of  a  sacred  obligation  which 
it  became  increasingly  difficult  not  to  betray.  Now 
that  they  were  beginning  a  new  life  in  new  surround^ 
ings,  she  recognized  the  necessity  for  renewed  effort.  It 

251 


THE  EVASION 

was  impossible  for  her  not  to  realize  that  companionship 
with  her,  the  woman  he  still  loved,  stimulated  his 
nature  to  its  highest  possibilities,  so  — 

"  I  think  we  are  going  to  be  very  happy  here,  and 
we  will  enjoy  it  together,  will  we  not  ?  "  she  asked 
him. 

"  I  shall  enjoy  anything,  even  to  cold  minced  mutton, 
with  you,  while  you  are  as  nice  to  me  as  you  are  to 
night,"  he  said. 

"  But  I  am  always  nice  to  you,  am  I  not  ?  " 

"  You  have  been  a  good  girl  —  better  than  I  deserve," 
he  said  affectionately  ;  and  stretching  out  his  arm  he 
lifted  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with  his  easy  and  courtly 
grace.  "  But  I  wish  you  would  n't  look  so  depressed  at 
the  idea  of  not  being  nice  to  me." 

"  Why  not,  dear  ?  " 

"  Because  it  makes  a  fellow  feel  —  why,  as  if  you 
tried  so  hard,  —  as  if  it  were  a  sort  of  religious 
effort "  — 

"  Foolish  boy !  " 

—  "  as  if  you  could  n't  do  it  naturally." 

She  left  her  hand  in  his  and  kept  the  smile  on  her 
lips,  but  asked  herself  silently  if  she  were  not  failing, 
—  if  her  husband,  whose  mind  was  not  without  percep 
tion,  could  be  kept  in  lifelong  ignorance  of  the  weari 
ness  that  his  presence  gave  her. 

"  We  are  always  so  busy  according  to  your  own 
wish,"  she  said ;  "  we  are  so  occupied  with  our  friends, 
and  entertainments,  and  automobiles ;  we  are  so  rarely 
by  ourselves  that  I  haven't  time  to  be  nice  to  you. 

252 


HUSBAND   AND  WIFE 

But  let  us  live  differently  up  here  ;  let  us  be  together 
more  and  enjoy  it  all  together." 

Arthur  fondled  his  wife's  hand  lazily  while  he  looked 
about  the  terrace  in  the  disorder  of  its  half-finished 
pergola  and  newly  graded  flower-beds.  Beyond  the 
terrace  the  tranquil  country  landscape  grew  dim  in  the 
twilight. 

"  Is  there  really  so  awfully  much  to  enjoy  in  the 
country  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Of  course  there  is.  Come,  and  I  will  show  you !  " 
she  said,  rising  gayly.  "  In  the  first  place  you  must  see 
the  hollyhocks ;  they  went  in  last  Monday  —  look  — 
they  are  all  in  a  row  along  the  south  side  of  the  per- 
gola." 

"  I  don't  see  anything,"  said  Arthur.  "  Perhaps  with 
the  aid  of  a  microscope  "  — 

"  Nonsense,  it  is  n't  too  dark  yet.  Kneel  down  beside 
me,  and  you  can  see  them.  Of  course  they  are  only 
babies  yet  —  only  babies  ;  but  I  put  them  all  in  my 
self  —  after  James  had  dug  the  holes.  Along  here  are 
the  shirley  poppies,  —  oh,  I  have  been  so  worried  about 
them  !  The  night  after  I  came  up  it  was  very  cold  and 
I  was  afraid  there  would  be  a  frost,  which  would  have 
killed  them.  I  lay  awake  thinking  about  it,  and  almost 
got  up  to  put  hot-water  bags  on  them.  Don't  laugh! 
Flowers  are  like  real  people  to  me  and  I  get  ridicu 
lously  fond  of  them.  So  will  you  when  you  have  broken 
your  finger-nails,  sprained  your  back,  and  got  headaches 
looking  after  them.  When  I  work  in  the  garden  I  stop 
now  and  then  to  ask  myself  why  I  care  for  it  so  much ; 

253 


THE   EVASION 

I  ache  in  every  limb  ;  I  am  uncomfortably  warm  ;  my 
hair  has  fallen  into  my  eyes  ;  I  am  ruining  my  hands 
and  complexion ;  —  and  I  am  perfectly  happy.  It 
does  n't  seem  rational,  does  it  ?  " 

Arthur  admitted  that  it  did  not. 

"  It 's  all  right  if  it  makes  you  happy,"  he  said,  "  but 
I  <3an't  help  thinking  that  you  are  made  for  something 
more  lively  than  digging  in  the  ground.  Of  course  you 
want  something  to  occupy  you,  since  you  won't  play 
bridge ;  but  if  you  must  have  a  fad  why  can't  you  get 
one  that  won't  spoil  your  complexion  ?  " 

His  wife's  hands  dropped  at  her  sides. 

"And  about  bridge  "  —began  Arthur. 

"  About  bridge  "  —  repeated  Gladys  lifelessly. 

"  Come  over  here  where  we  can  sit  down,  and  let  us 
talk  it  over,"  he  said,  with  an  evident  effort  to  speak 
easily.  "  It 's  too  dark  to  look  at  any  more  flowers  to 
night,  and  I  want  —  but  I  say,  Gladys,  why  won't  you 
smoke  with  a  fellow,  —  it  makes  everything  so  much 
more  sociable.  Try  one  to  please  me."  He  held  out 
his  cigarette  case,  but  Gladys  shook  her  head. 

"  Please  don't  ask  me  to  do  that,"  she  said. 

"  But  it 's  not  bad  form  now,  —  all  the  women  of 
your  set  are  smoking,"  he  protested  discontentedly. 

"  It  is  n't  a  question  of  form.  I  simply  dislike  it  and 
it  makes  me  ill." 

"  But  you  would  get  all  over  that  after  a  few  days' 
practice." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  ought  —  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  learn, 
to  smoke  with  him  ?  "  she  asked  herself  wearily. 

254 


HUSBAND   AND  WIFE 

*'  You  are  the  most  inconsistent  woman  in  the  world," 
he  continued,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  '  Consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  little  minds,'  " 
quoted  his  wife,  with  determined  good-humor. 

"  I  never  heard  that  before,"  said  Arthur  suspiciously. 

"  I  suppose  not." 

"  Who  said  it,  anyway?" 

"  Emerson." 

"  Emerson  !  There  you  are  again.  How  is  a  man  to 
follow  you  ?  You  won't  go  regularly  to  church  ;  you 
live  for  society,  you  lead  it,  you  ornament  it,  you  spend 
hours  with  your  maid,  and  days  with  your  dressmaker. 
You  don't  shy  at  receiving  geniuses  whom  no  one  knows 
anything  about,  and  talking  with  them  and  being  seen 
with  them  in  a  way  no  woman  in  Boston  but  yourself 
could  do.  But  you  won't  play  bridge ;  you  won't  smoke ; 
—  and  suddenly  one  hears  of  you  reading  Emerson  and 
being  perfectly  happy  for  weeks  at  a  time  weeding  a 
garden.  Now  take  a  woman  like  Diana  Hart ;  she  is 
consistent  if  she  is  a  sport,  —  you  always  know  where 
to  find  her,  and  she  is  always  sure  to  give  you  a  good 
time." 

"  So  it  is  Diana  Hart  that  you  have  been  smoking 
with?"  said  Gladys  musingly. 

"  I  had  to  do  something  with  my  evenings  while  you 
were  digging  holes  in  the  ground."  Arthur  thought  that 
his  wife  looked  pallid  and  distant  in  the  dying  light. 
"  There  is  nothing  to  be  jealous  about,"  he  muttered. 
"  You  know  that  I  would  give  all  the  Diana  Harts  in 
the  world  for  your  "  — 

255 


THE   EVASION 

"  Please  don't,  Arthur."  Gladys  drew  her  hand  away 
gently,  but  firmly.  "  And  I  am  not  —  jealous,  as  you 
put  it.  I  am  glad  you  like  Diana,  and  we  must  arrange 
to  have  her  here  to  stay." 

"  She  can  come  in  July,"  said  Arthur  unguardedly. 

"  Ah !  July  will  be  a  very  good  time.  I  will  write 
her  to-morrow.  Shall  I  try  for  the  Jefferies  at  the 
same  time?" 

"  The  very  thing !  "  exclaimed  Arthur,  with  enthu 
siasm.  "  I  was  thinking  of  them  myself,  but  I  did  n't 
like  to  suggest  it,  for  I  half  suspect  that  you  don't  like 
the  Jefferies.  You  are  trumps  all  right  when  it  comes 
to  the  point,  Gladys ;  and  I  am  sorry  I  teased  you  about 
the  smoking.  You  are  right  about  that,  too.  Some  one 
said  you  always  made  him  think  of  real  lace  and  violets, 
and  the  smell  of  tobacco  would  n't  go  well  with  those 
things.  There  's  no  one  like  you,  and  I  never  forget  it, 
though  I  do  go  now  and  then  for  a  smoke  or  a  whiskey 
and  soda  with  Diana  "  — 

"  What  was  it  you  were  going  to  say  about  bridge?" 

"  Well,  it 's  just  this,"  he  began.  "  I  think  we  shall 
have  to  give  up  standing  out  for  a  superior  moral  tone 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  gave  in  at  first  because 
you  seemed  to  care  so  much,  and  I  did  n't  blame  you, 
after  that  wretched  affair.  And  it  was  very  sweet  of 
you,  very  warm-hearted,  and  all  that,  to  care  so  much. 
But  it 's  all  past  and  gone  now.  We  can't  be  laughed 
at  for  prigs  just  because  a  friend  of  yours  cheated  at 
cards  years  ago."  Soothed  by  the  confidence,  nurtured 
on  the  admiration  of  his  friends,  Arthur  had  almost 

256 


HUSBAND   AND  WIFE 

forgotten  his  own  guilt.  He  paused  now,  hoping  that 
his  wife  would  speak,  but  she  was  silent ;  and  after  an 
uncomfortable  pause  he  began  again  in  a  louder  tone, 
as  though  to  fortify  his  irresolution. 

"  It 's  all  very  well,  but  we  cannot  go  on  this  way 
forever.  People  are  laughing  at  us  already.  I  have 
done  it  to  please  you,  and  I  was  glad  to  do  it  for  a 
time ;  but  the  time  has  come  to  listen  to  reason.  There 
are  not  many  husbands  who  would  have  let  you  have 
your  way  as  long  as  I  have.  Now  are  there  ?  " 

"  My  experience  in  husbands  has  been  so  slight," 
murmured  Gladys.  Her  voice,  remote  and  gentle,  sug 
gested  an  irritating  detachment  from  the  heat  and 
bluster  of  his  own  argument;  and  irritation  gave  him 
further  courage.  He  rose,  and  began  to  walk  to  and 
fro. 

"  It  is  no  use  bandying  words,"  he  said.  "  I  would 
do  a  great  deal  to  please  you,  but  the  time  has  come  to 
take  a  stand  and  to  remember  that  I  am  master  in  my 
own  house." 

It  was  the  first  time  in  their  married  life  that  he  had 
addressed  his  wife  in  such  a  tone,  and  during  the  pause 
that  followed  he  waited,  thoroughly  anxious  and  already 
remorseful,  to  hear  her  reply. 

"  I  am  wondering  who  told  you  to  say  that  to  me," 
she  said  finally. 

"  Hang  it  all,  Gladys  !  "  He  sat  down  again  boyishly. 
"  You  know  I  can't  do  it  unless  you  say  so ;  but  why 
will  you  make  a  fellow  look  like  a  fool  before  all  his 
friends  ?  Why  won't  you  give  in  ?  " 

257 


THE   EVASION 

Gladys  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two  while  she 
thought  it  over.  Her  determination  not  to  have  bridge 
played  at  her  house  had  caused  the  one  struggle  of  her 
married  life.  Arthur  had  yielded  as  much  because  of 
his  love  for  her  as  because  of  his  inability  to  oppose  his 
will  to  hers.  But  lately  he  was  growing  restive  under 
the  influence  of  his  friends,  and  she  realized  that 
further  opposition  might  result  in  his  alienation  from 
home  and  wife. 

But  she  paused  yet  another  moment  before  answer 
ing,  to  dwell  upon  the  weariness  and  futility  of  her  life 
with  him,  and  upon  her  sudden  realization  of  how  little 
she  would  care  if  he  turned  from  her  to  another. 

"  I  have  failed,"  she  thought.  "  I  have  failed  to  make 
my  marriage  other  than  the  thing  of  humdrum  adjust 
ment,  of  easy,  tolerant  fondness  that  is  born  of  daily 
contact.  I  have  failed,  but  what  does  it  matter  ?  "  She 
looked  into  the  twilight  sky,  and  thought  of  the  night 
years  ago  when  her  future  —  a  thing  of  wonder  and 
magic  —  had  seemed  to  be  coming  towards  her  from 
among  the  stars. 

"  Won't  you  please  think  about  it  ?  "  Her  husband's 
voice  sounded  remote  and  oddly  incompetent.  "Won't 
you  please  think  about  it  ?  " 

"I  have  thought,"  she  answered,  bringing  her 
thoughts  back  to  him  with  an  effort,  "  and  it  shall  be 
as  you  wish,  Arthur."  She  spoke  to  him  with  her  usual 
gentleness  of  manner,  but  withdrew  from  his  remorse 
ful  caresses. 

"  I  am  tired  to-night,"  she  said,  turning  her  cool  cheek 
258 


HUSBAND   AND  WIFE 

from  him.  "  And  please,  Arthur,  do  not  think  about 
saying  '  Thank  you. '  Perhaps  it  is  not  so  great  a  sacri 
fice  as  you  think ;  and,  as  you  say,  it  is  your  house." 

"  I  was  a  brute,  and  you  must  forgive  me,"  he  cried 
exuberantly. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive.  And  now  don't  you 
think  we  had  better  go  in  ?  It  is  quite  late." 

"  All  right.  I  will  run  up  first,  for  I  want  to  tele 
phone  Raymond  to  bring  the  bubble  up  to-morrow." 

Left  alone  it  seemed  to  Gladys  that  she  breathed 
more  deeply.  It  was  over,  then,  the  long  struggle  to 
defend  her  house  against  what  seemed  to  her  intrinsi 
cally  wrong  and  which  held  associations  that  she  hated 
and  feared.  It  was  the  last  and  greatest  of  many  sac 
rifices  that  she  had  made  for  him,  sacrifices  concern 
ing  perhaps  the  choice  of  plays  they  should  see,  the 
books  and  periodicals  that  were  found  on  their  tables, 
the  friends  they  should  entertain,  —  points  that  were 
small  in  themselves,  but  which  gradually  involved  the 
surrender  of  her  fastidious  social  and  intellectual  re 
quirements,  and  cheapened  little  by  little  the  surface  of 
her  life. 

She  knew  that  a  woman  does  this  at  her  own  peril, 
but  she  had  grown  to  feel  that  few  things  in  her  own 
life  mattered.  She  had  ceased  to  expect  personal  hap 
piness,  though  she  could  have  given  no  definite  reason 
for  so  doing.  To  hold  Arthur  to  the  level  of  his  love 
for  her,  and  to  make  him  happy,  were  the  articles  of 
her  daily  creed.  And  now  she  was  failing.  She  thought 
of  Diana  Hart  and  her  pulses  leapt  suddenly,  for 

259 


THE   EVASION 

she  knew  that  she  was  glad  that  Arthur  spent  his  even 
ings  with  her.  "  He  is  not  vicious,"  she  said  to  herself, 
—  "  he  is  only  commonplace,  and  he  wearies  me.  For 
two  years  I  have  talked  to  him,  listened  to  him,  hu 
mored  him,  given  my  mind,  my  soul  almost,  up  to  his 
wishes.  I  have  shared  his  interests,  and  when  he  would 
not  share  mine  I  have  given  them  up.  But  now  for  a 
little  while  I  will  be  free.  For  two  weeks  I  have  been 
almost  happy  in  the  garden  ;  to-night  I  tried  to  make 
him  enjoy  it  with  me,  but  he  would  not,  and  now  I  will 
enjoy  alone." 

Leaning  on  the  terrace  wall,  she  looked  into  the  soft, 
thick  darkness,  and  breathed  deeply,  because  she  felt 
free  at  last.  A  line  of  poetry  came  to  her  mind,  — 

"  The  huge  and  thoughtful  night." 

She  repeated  the  words  half  aloud,  and  then  she  smiled 
gravely  and  gladly,  while  her  nature  seemed  to  stretch 
itself  as  after  a  long  sleep. 

If  she  had  paused  to  think,  she  would  have  known 
that  the  world  with  its  pomp  and  circumstance  would 
claim  her  restless  spirit  inevitably  and  often,  but  for 
the  moment  it  was  enough  to  stand  there  and  feel  her 
self  absorbed  into  the  night.  It  was  enough  to  hear  the 
lift  and  fall  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  and  the  occasional 
drowsy  and  tender  murmur  of  young  birds  turning  in 
their  nests.  It  was  enough  that  she  had  made  a  com 
pact  with  nature,  and  the  great  brooding  heart  of  it 
welcomed  her  home. 

"  It  is  eleven  o'clock,  and  time  to  turn  in,"  her  hus- 
260 


HUSBAND   AND  WIFE 

band's  voice  interrupted  her  suddenly,  as  he  passed  his 
arm  about  her.    "  I  can't  tell  you  how  good  " — 

"  Please  do  not  try,"  she  interrupted  him,  without  a 
trace  of  impatience  in  her  voice  ;  but  without  knowing 
why,  he  took  his  arm  away. 

"  There  is  a  pretty  view  here  in  the  daytime,"  she 
said  lightly.  "  The  only  thing  I  don't  like  is  an  ugly 
factory  settlement  by  the  river ;  but  the  trees  will  hide 
it  in  a  few  years.  You  can  see  the  lights  now,  at  the 
left." 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  is  ?  "  Arthur  asked  her  sig 
nificantly. 

"Why,  no;  what  is  it?" 

"Dick  Copeland's  social  settlement.  I  heard  it 
when  I  came  up  here  with  you  two  weeks  ago,  but 
I  thought  I  would  say  nothing  at  the  time  because  I 
knew  it  would  bother  you,  and  it  was  too  late  to  do 
anything." 

For  one  giddy  moment  Gladys  asked  herself  if  she 
were  dreaming,  but  immediately  she  knew  that  this 
thing  was  true,  and  that  Dick  was  probably  down  there 
among  the  blur  of  lights.  The  happy  peace  she  had 
planned  to  find  in  her  new  home  was  rent  with  an 
ugly  sound,  for  neither  happiness  nor  peace  could  ever 
dwell  with  her  while  this  man  was  near. 

Her  husband  stood  with  his  gaze  following  hers  mo 
rosely,  for  among  the  lights  of  Dick's  settlement  there 
was  that  which  he  also  feared. 

"  How  much  did  you  ever  care  for  the  damned  fel 
low,  anyway  ?  "  he  demanded  roughly. 

261 


THE   EVASION 

"Are  you  trying  to  insult  me?"  she  asked;  and, 
though  her  voice  was  cold,  she  felt  that  at  this  moment 
she  hated  her  husband  almost  as  much  as  the  man 
whose  footfall  had  the  power  to  shake  her  life. 

"  Curse  him  !  curse  him !  curse  him !  "  cried  Arthur. 
And  so,  for  the  first  time,  passion  and  anger  and  fear 
stood  confessed  between  them. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ALPHONSB    DE    CHAVANNES 

_L  SAY,  Gladys,  it 's  all  very  well  to  keep  a  gay  house 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  don't  you  think  you  are 
rather  going  the  pace  ?  " 

The  remonstrance  came  from  Arthur  during  one  of 
the  rare  moments  when  he  found  his  wife  alone.  She 
had  come  into  his  dressing-room  just  before  luncheon 
to  consult  him  regarding  afternoon  plans. 

"Don't  you  think  that  you  are  rather  going  the 
pace  ?  "  he  repeated,  looking  at  her  in  the  mirror,  while 
he  wrestled  with  a  new  cravat. 

She  was  dressed  in  ecru  lace,  and  wore  a  bunch  of 
purple  pansies  at  her  belt.  Arthur  thought  that  she 
had  never  looked  more  exquisitely  delicate  and  youth 
ful  than  at  this  moment,  and  for  this  reason  he  frowned 
at  her  as  he  jerked  his  tie  into  place. 

"  If  you  would  only  speak  plain  English,  Arthur,  I 
might  understand  you,"  she  said. 

"  I  think  you  usually  understand  all  right,"  he  mut 
tered  discontentedly,  rummaging  in  the  drawer  for  his 
second  hairbrush.  "  I  have  never  interfered  between 
you  and  any  one  you  wanted  to  see.  It  would  n't 
do  any  good  if  I  did ;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  never 
have,  and  don't  mean  to  now.  But  as  for  pretending 

263 


THE   EVASION 

that  I  like  the  way  you  and  this  Frenchman  are  seen 
together,  I  don't  and  I  can't." 

Gladys  sat  down  by  the  chintz-curtained  window, 
and  let  a  summer  wind  have  its  way  with  her  hair. 

"  Monsieur  de  Chavannes  is  a  charming  man,"  she 
said.  "  We  play  with  ideas  delightfully  together." 

"  I  had  rather  you  played  with  hollyhocks ;  I  had 
rather  you  dug  holes  in  the  ground,  and  spoiled  your 
complexion,"  he  continued,  in  the  same  tone. 

Gladys  smiled  faintly.  "  Your  language  is  almost 
extravagant,"  she  said.  "  I  like  Monsieur  de  Cha 
vannes.  It  is  not  often  that  I  like  a  man ;  when  I 
do  "  The  pause  was  sufficiently  eloquent. 

"  Then  there  's  this  automobiling  " — 

"  You  were  the  one  to  urge  me  to  it." 

"  But  I  never  intended  you  to  be  your  own  chauffeur 
and  tear  through  the  country  at  the  rate  you  do  after 
dark.  It 's  not  womanly.  You  had  much  better  play 
bridge." 

"  Tell  me  one  thing,  Arthur  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  If  we  gave  up  this  life,  and  settled  down  to  live 
with  each  other  quietly,  would  you  be  happier  ?  There 
are  charming  people,  the  best  people,  who  do  not  gam 
ble  and  bet  and  flirt  with  their  neighbors'  wives.  Why 
should  we  not  associate  with  them  instead  of  with  this 
small,  brilliantly  superficial  and  superficially  brilliant 
circle  of  our  own  friends?  Perhaps  if  we  gave  them 
up,  you  would  feel  more  like  settling  down  to  some  one 
definite  interest,  and  care  less  for  wine  and  cards." 

264 


ALPHONSE  DE   CHAVANNES 

"  What  new  rig  are  you  up  to  now  ?  "  he  asked  mo 
rosely,  turning  in  his  chair  to  look  at  her. 

"  I  will  give  it  all  up  if  you  say  so,"  she  continued 
earnestly,  "  and  we  will  try  again." 

"  Try  what  ?  " 

"  You  must  know  what  I  mean.  We  are  thousands 
of  miles  apart  and  drifting  farther.  Shall  we  stop  and 
begin  again?  Think  well,  for  this  may  be  our  last 
chance." 

Arthur's  face  glowed  with  sudden  comprehension. 

"  Think  well,"  she  repeated. 

"  I  tell  you  what  I  will  do,"  he  said.  "  I  will  give 
up  Diana  if  you  will  agree  to  give  up  the  Frenchman, 
for  I  suppose  that  was  what  you  meant." 

In  that  moment  Gladys  came  to  her  ultimate  reali 
zation  that  further  effort  toward  uniting  their  lives  was 
useless,  and  she  smiled  suddenly  and  happily  at  her  hus 
band  because  of  her  relief.  She  had  made  the  sugges 
tion  with  sincerity,  but  a  great  dread  of  its  acceptance. 
In  this  life  of  excitement  she  was  conscious  of  finding 
safety  from  strange  and  terrible  tides  of  feeling  that  she 
began  to  hear  dimly,  as  she  had  sometimes  heard  waves 
of  the  blue  ocean  of  her  youth  whispering  solemnly 
along  the  shore  while  she  lay  awake  in  the  night-time. 

"  Is  it  a  bargain  ?  "  asked  her  husband. 

But  she  shook  her  head  at  him  gayly.  "  We  will  both 
keep  our  friends,"  she  said,  "  and  I  won't  tease  you 
any  more.  Your  hair  is  not  quite  smooth  on  the  back 
right-hand  side ;  but  you  must  hurry  or  you  will  be 
late  to  luncheon.  Aunt  Edith  has  gone  down." 

265 


THE   EVASION 

Her  objection  to  intercourse  with  Mrs.  Stan  wood 
was  one  of  the  things  Gladys  had  been  obliged  to  set 
aside  in  her  married  life,  and  outwardly  the  two  women 
were  the  best  of  friends.  Living  in  the  world,  she  had 
grown  to  see  its  vices  with  something  of  indifference, 
and,  aside  from  approval  or  affection,  she  admitted  Mrs. 
Stanwood's  wit  and  charm  to  a  place  among  the  con 
genial  pastimes  of  her  days. 

She  found  her  aunt  in  the  library  now,  talking  with 
Diana  Hart.  The  room  was  papered  and  hung  with  cool 
greens,  and  Mrs.  Hart,  who  was  dark  and  colorless, 
considered  that  Gladys  had  so  furnished  it  for  the  ex 
press  disadvantage  of  her  husband's  friend.  She  was 
not  a  pretty  woman,  but  her  tall,  perfectly  moulded 
figure  was  supple  as'  moving  water,  and  there  were 
gleams  in  her  long,  restless  eyes,  and  a  power  and  del 
icate  insolence  in  her  mouth,  that  a  rival  might  well 
fear.  She  was  laughing  when  Gladys  came  in. 

"  Are  you  talking  of  Uncle  Willie  ?  "  asked  Gladys, 
hearing  Mr.  Stanwood's  name.  "  Why  did  n't  you 
bring  him  with  you,  Aunt  Edith  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  he  would  be  bored  to  death  here !  Par 
ticularly  now  that  you  have  got  over  your  prejudice 
against  allowing  us  to  play  bridge." 

"I  can't  imagine  why  you  do  not  play  yourself," 
said  Mrs.  Hart,  looking  at  her  hostess  with  suspicion, 
and  wondering  if  her  refusal  to  touch  cards  were  not 
a  pose.  "  No  woman  of  her  age  could  possibly  be  as 
innocent  as  she  looks  in  that  lace  and  those  pansies," 


she  thought. 


266 


ALPHONSE   DE   CHAVANNES 

"  I  can't  imagine  why  you  don't  play,"  she  continued 
aloud.  "  Sometimes  I  think  you  are  quite  too  good  for 
us,  and  then  again  "  She  shrugged  her  shoulders 
with  a  significant  look. 

The  incorruptible  purity  and  delicacy  of  Gladys's 
appearance  annoyed  Diana,  but  more  annoying  than 
her  appearance  was  her  friendship  with  Monsieur  de 
Chavannes,  for  that  distinguished  traveler  had  come  to 
America  with  every  appearance  of  being  Mrs.  Hart's 
devoted  admirer. 

"  Where  are  the  men  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Stanwood,  fold 
ing  her  embroidery.  "  It  must  be  past  lunch  time,  and 
I  am  hungry." 

"Monsieur  de  Chavannes  does  not  usually  absent 
himself  so  long,"  said  Diana. 

"No;  and  we  miss  him,  don't  we?"  said  Gladys 
tranquilly. 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  dear." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish.  But  I  cannot  imagine  that 
one  could  find  Monsieur  de  Chavannes  anything  but  a 
delightful  man." 

"  Why  do  you  like  him,  cherie  ?  "  asked  her  aunt. 

"  I  like  his  mind." 

Diana  laughed. 

"  I  like  his  mind,"  continued  Gladys,  disregarding 
the  laugh.  "  It  is  subtle  and  supple.  One  can  discuss 
the  latest  play,  and  book,  and  picture  with  him.  He  is 
familiar  with  ideas." 

"  You  were  discussing  ideas  on  the  terrace  last  night, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

267 


THE   EVASION 

"  Yes.  He  told  me  that  he  agreed  with  Maeterlinck  in 
thinking  Ibsen's  '  Master  Builder '  a  strange  and  dis 
quieting  play.  I  think  it  only  a  murky  and  unwhole 
some  one.  He  also  thinks  the  later  works  of  Henry 
James  subtle  and  profound,  whereas  I  consider  them 
complicated  and  obscure.  The  discussion  of  these 
things  helps  the  time  along  amazingly." 

Diana  Hart  yawned,  smiled,  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders ;  but  Mrs.  Stan  wood  looked  appreciation  and 
sympathy. 

"  What  friends  we  should  be  if  I  only  had  a  heart 
and  a  conscience,  or  you  had  neither,"  she  said,  address 
ing  her  niece. 

"  Here  is  one  of  the  men,"  interrupted  Diana,  as 
Monsieur  de  Chavannes  entered  and  bowed  low  over 
the  hand  of  his  hostess. 

He  was  a  man  small  and  delicately  built,  neither 
young  nor  old,  —  whose  sensitive,  distinguished  fea 
tures  remained  undisfigured  by  the  beard  of  appalling 
dimensions  which  is  fashionable  among  his  country 
men. 

"  Madame,  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "  I  am  late  becos' 
of  spending  the  morning  with  one  of  your  compatriots, 
discussing  the  labor  propositions  of  your  most  wonder 
ful  country.  I  allude  to  Mr.  Richard  Copeland.  Ah ! 
What  a  man,  a  Titan  " 

"  Come,  come.  We  will  not  discuss  men  or  Titans 
now,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Stanwood.  "  Luncheon  is 
ready  and  I  am  starving,  as  I  said  before.  Here  are 
the  others,  Gladys,  and  let  us  go  in." 

268 


ALPHONSE   DE   CHAVANNES 

At  the  table  he  sat  next  to  his  hostess,  and  talked  to 
her  under  cover  of  the  crude  and  noisy  merriment  led 
by  Mrs.  Hart  and  Arthur. 

"  Madame  is  among  them  as  a  subtly  fashioned  work 
of  art  among  crude  tools,"  thought  the  Frenchman ; 
"  an  essence  rare,  elusive,  and  fine,  beside  commonplace 
clay.  How  did  she  come  here?  Where  will  she  end? 
One  feels  in  her  a  tenderness  —  une  tendresse  adorable  f 
line  purete  et  une  charme  exquise!"  And  again  and 
again  he  looked  from  the  face  of  the  wife  to  that  of  the 
husband. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  Copeland's  settlement  ?  " 
asked  one  of  the  men  unexpectedly. 

"  One  think  many  things,"  he  began.  "  First  of  all 
one  think  the  young  man  make  moch  trouble  for  him 
self." 

Gladys  was  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  spot 
where  she  had  planted  her  tallest  flowers  in  order  that 
a  view  of  the  place  where  Dick  Copeland  worked  might 
be  hidden. 

"  What  kind  of  trouble  ?  "  she  asked,  without  turn 
ing  her  head. 

"  Mafoi  !  almost  any  kind.  At  present  it  is  a  ques 
tion  if  he  be  struck  down  by  the  law  or  those  who  defy 
the  law.  By  one  he  is  suspected  of  fermenting  —  is 
that  how  you  call  it  ?  —  excuse  my  atrocious  English  — 
of  fermenting  the  labor  disorders  ;  by  the  other  he  is 
accused  of  trahison  —  would  you  say  betrayal  ?  " 

"  Betrayal !  "  said  Gladys,  speaking  low  and  very 
distinctly.  "Yes,  that  might  be  the  word."  Her  face 

269 


THE   EVASION 

was  still  turned  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  crum 
bling  bread  with  her  right  hand.  Monsieur  de  Cha- 
vannes,  looking  at  the  fragile  profile,  asked  himself  if 
it  had  not  suddenly  grown  pale. 

"  But  I  do  not  think  he  has  betrayed  any  one,"  he 
continued.  "  He  has  only  made  one  big  mistake.  He 
has  discovered  early  in  life  that  the  rich  man  liv'  off 
the  poor  man,  which  is  true.  Next  "  — 

"  Bernard  Shaw  !  "  murmured  Mrs.  Stan  wood. 

"  Ah,  madame  !  You  read  heem  ?  There  is  a  wit ! 
a  cleverness  hardly  tolerable !  a  juggler  with  ideas  !  a 
facility  unsurpassed  of  intellectual  leger  de  main.  But 
often  he  is  true  as  well  as  dazzling ;  and  it  is  true  that 
the  rich  man  he  liv'  from  off  the  poor  man." 

"  My  dear  Alphonse,"  interrupted  Diana  Hart,  "  all 
this  might  sound  admirably  in  a  lecture,  but  please 
remember  that  you  are  talking  to  people  who  have  not 
come  to  admire  but  to  understand.  And  will  you  ex 
plain  how  we  householders  and  landholders  who  pay  out 
hundreds  of  dollars  a  month  to  our  servants,  part  of 
the  so-called  poor, — who  serve  us  most  vilely,  and  drink 
our  wine,  and  take  our  pocket-handkerchiefs  and  neck 
ties  whenever  our  backs  are  turned,  —  how  we  whose 
entire  income  goes  to  paying  the  poor  for  the  needs 
of  our  everyday  existence,  live  off  of  them?  " 

Alphonse  de  Chavannes  inclined  himself  toward  his 
questioner  with  perfect  good  humor. 

"  It  is  a  complicated  subjec',  chere  madame,"  he  an 
swered,  "but  one  it  would  give  me  pleasure  to  ex 
plain." 

270 


ALPHONSE   DE  CHAVANNES 

"  Please  do  not  try  to  do  so,"  said  Gladys,  in  her 
lightest  voice  and  manner.  "  It  must  be  something  to 
do  with  political  economy,  and  we  could  not  possibly 
digest  it.  I  read  a  book  on  the  subject  once,  so  I  know 
of  what  I  speak." 

"  And  how  much  did  you  understand  of  it  ?  "  asked 
a  man  opposite,  with  a  heavy  attempt  at  being  quizzical. 
He  knew  Gladys  as  a  gay  and  pretty  woman,  the  lead 
ing  spirit  in  a  circle  of  which  he  was  sometimes  the 
proud  guest,  and  he  regarded  her  therefore  as  a  spar 
kling,  but  frivolous  and  mindless  being,  his  own  mind 
being  one  which  rarely  aspired  beyond  sporting  gossip 
and  the  latest  news  on  the  stock  exchange. 

"  And  how  much  did  you  understand  of  it  ?  " 

"  Every  word,"  she  answered  promptly.  "  I  under 
stood  every  word  of  it  perfectly;  but  nothing  at  all 
of  all  the  words  together.  The  only  fact  I  gleaned 
from  the  whole  book  was  that  it  is  wrong  to  buy  gold 
lace.  I  never  wished  to  buy  any  before,  but  since 
then  it  has  become  a  vicious  and  not  always  resisted 
craving." 

"  This  is  all  my  doing,"  said  Mrs.  Stanwood  approv 
ingly.  "  When  Gladys  came  to  me  she  was  quite  in 
competent  to  enjoy  doing  those  things  which  she  ought 
not  to  do." 

"  But  I  became  competent  so  soon  that  it  is  not  fair 
to  hold  the  past  against  me.  However,  I  am  afraid  I 
don't  enjoy  doing  them  quite  as  much  as  I  did.  It  was 
a  delicious  and  awful  pastime  at  first,  such  as  was  en 
joyed  by  the  first  woman  who  smoked  a  cigarette  or 

271 


THE   EVASION 

rode  a  bicycle ;  but  now,  in  this  world  we  all  share,  so 
many  people  are  doing  what  they  ought  not  to  do  that 
the  peril  has  gone  out  of  it.  It  has  become  almost  as 
commonplace  as  the  virtues  of  the  child  in  the  Sunday- 
school  books." 

Monsieur  de  Chavannes  looked  curiously  at  his  host 
ess,  for  his  sensitive  ear  had  detected  a  new  and  slightly 
forced  note  in  her  words  and  manner. 

"  But  in  the  meantime  we  have  not  heard  who  Dick 
Copeland  has  betrayed  or  what  trouble  he  is  likely  to 
find  himself  in,"  asked  Morrison.  He  was  the  man 
who  had  originally  questioned  Alphonse  de  Chavannes 
concerning  Dick,  as  well  as  one  of  those  who  had 
been  present  years  ago  at  the  game  of  poker  during 
which  one  man  had  lost  his  reputation  and  another  his 
honor. 

"  I  think  he  betray  no  one,  but  he  make  the  mistake 
of  thinking  that  he  can  make  the  human  being  live 
according  to  a  system  of  his  own  contriving.  Men  will 
never  live  according  to  any  system  not  evoluted,  —  that 
is  not  the  word,  but  you  onderstand, — not  evoluted  grad 
ually  from  millions  of  years  of  failures  and  slow  adjost- 
ing.  But  whether  from  obstinateness  or  disinterested 
ness,  he  has  put  all  his  money  and  his  strength  into  his 
system,  and  he  fail.  His  people  are  very  angry  with 
him  for  taking  away  their  drink  and  their  religion. 
Que  voulez-vous  ?  Can  one  blame  them  ?  If  you  take 
away  the  vices  of  the  proletariat  you  must  leave  him 
his  emotions,  and  in  the  prayer-meeting  there  is  moch 
emotion." 

272 


ALPHONSE   DE   CHAVANNES 

"  You  seem  to  be  almost  as  good  an  atheist  as  Cope- 
land  himself,"  interrupted  Morrison. 

"  Pardon  !  there  is  moch  difference  between  us.  He 
is  an  atheist.  I  am  an  agnostic.  He  is  more  credulous 
than  I.  He  believ'  in  negation.  He  believ'  in  nothing, 
I  believ'  nothing.  Voilaf  Am  I  onderstood?  Madame, 
I  am  sure,  comprehends." 

He  turned  to  Gladys  with  his  charming  smile,  but 
there  was  no  answering  smile  on  her  lips  or  in  her 
eyes. 

"  In  what  sort  of  trouble  is  he  likely  to  find  him 
self  ?"  she  asked,  as  if  against  her  will. 

"  The  troubles  of  a  bold  man  who  fight  alone  against 
things  that  exist.  The  labor  question  is  at  an  acute 
point  at  present.  You  who  liv'  on  this  hillside  in  your 
beautiful  home  cannot  onderstand  the  misery  and  vio 
lence  that  is  passing  in  the  town  of  mills  whose  chim 
neys  you  see  from  your  windows.  The  las'  big  strike  is 
announce'  for  to-day,  and  it  is  not  a  demand  for  higher 
wages  or  shorter  hours,  but  for  the  clos'  shop.  Our 
friend  Copeland  is  in  favor  of  the  open  shop ;  he  be 
liev'  that  free  citizens  should  possess  the  right  of  ac 
cepting  such  employment  as  they  choos'.  The  laboring 
class  hold  that  soch  freedom  strike  the  foundation  of 
their  organized  movement  for  better  conditions.  Cope- 
land  has  up  to  this  time  espoused  the  cause  of  the 
workingman,  and  the  workingmen  say  now  that  he 
betray  them.  They  say  that  his  settlement  with  its 
fine  mills  and  its  tenements  is  only  a  bid  for  high-class 
labor,  and  the  whole  a  '  monster  machine '  —  I  think 

273 


THE   EVASION 

that  is  their  phrase  —  for  increasing  his  own  fortune. 
It  may  be  true,  but  I  do  not  believe  it  —  I  do  not !  " 

The  Frenchman  paused  to  sip  his  claret,  and  then 
looked  about  the  table  to  see  that  the  lunch  had  long 
since  been  eaten  and  removed. 

"Your  pardon,  madame!  "  he  exclaimed  quickly,  "I 
have  bored  your  guests  with  my  hobby-horse  —  is  it 
hobby-horse  that  you  say?" 

"  Hobby-horse  will  do  all  right.  We  don't  usually 
take  the  trouble  to  say  it  all,"  said  the  stockbroker 
opposite. 

"Have  I  bored  you,  as  well  as  your  guests,  ma- 
dame  ?  "  continued  Alphonse  de  Chavannes  contritely. 
"  Once  or  twice  I  have  thought  you  show'  an  interest  in 
these  questions,  or  I  should  not  have  allowed  myself  to 
be  led  away." 

"  You  are  right,  monsieur.  They  do  interest  me," 
said  Gladys,  regaining  the  ease  of  manner  that  at  one 
moment  she  had  felt  was  leaving  her.  "  I  am  interested, 
and  some  day  we  must  have  a  long  talk  about  it,  but  I 
warn  you  that  I  have  no  comprehension  of  the  social 
ists'  point  of  view.  I  do  not  see  how  we  can  level  con 
ditions  without  leveling  ability." 

"  Permit  me,  madame  —  it  is  not  a  question  of  con 
ditions  as  much  as  of  adjostment  of  the  opportunity 
to  share  and  share  alike." 

Gladys  laughed.  "I  see  that  I  must  not  argue  with 
you  or  I  might  become  convinced,  and  that  would  be 
so  uncomfortable.  Your  opinions  are  your  luxuries, 
your  articles  de  vertu,  to  be  cherished  and  analyzed. 

274 


ALPHONSE   DE   CHAVANNES 

Mine^  would  be  articles  of  faith  to  be  lived  by;  and 
that  is  because  of  my  remnant  of  a  New  England  con 
science,  which  I  have  never  been  able  to  leave  quite 
behind  me.  Aunt  Edith,  shall  we  have  coffee  on  the 
piazza?" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    PROFESSOR    IS    TROUBLED 


PR< 


IOFESSOR  Lawrence  visited  his  daughter  during 
the  following  week,  and  observed  herself  and  her  sur 
roundings  with  puzzled  and  profound  anxiety.  Women 
who  smoked  and  gambled  and  drank  cocktails  were  an 
offense  to  the  professor,  and  the  fact  that  these  same 
women  were  attractive  and  well-born  only  increased  his 
trouble.  It  was  true  that  his  daughter  did  none  of  these 
things,  but  she  permitted  them  in  her  house.  She  not 
only  made  them  possible,  but  easy  and  attractive.  The 
cigarettes,  ash  trays,  matches,  were  dainty  and  expen 
sive.  And  most  perfect  was  the  system  with  which  noise 
less  servants  unfolded  the  card  tables,  arranged  lamps, 
whiskey,  and  siphons  in  that  corner  of  the  hall  where 
the  bridge-players  held  their  nightly  revels. 

Nor  was  it  only  card-playing  and  smoking  that 
troubled  the  professor.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  son- 
in-law's  guests  drank  more  wine  than  was  compatible 
with  health  and  good  breeding.  There  was  no  hour  of 
the  day,  and  very  few  —  if  any  —  of  the  night,  during 
which  the  wine  sideboard  in  the  dining-room  did  not 
stand  unlocked ;  and  a  servant  was  always  within  call 
to  furnish  cracked  ice  and  other  ingredients  necessary 

276 


THE  PROFESSOR  IS  TROUBLED 

to  the  making  of  cocktails,  which  Arthur  was  said  to 
mix  with  the  hand  of  an  artist. 

There  came  one  not-to-be-forgotten  evening  when 
Professor  Lawrence  was  persuaded  to  taste  a  cocktail 
before  dinner,  and  in  the  ensuing  exhilaration  he  ac 
cepted  a  second.  The  result  had  been  a  warm  and 
pleasing  glow,  a  sense  of  something  long  forgotten  that 
was  proud  and  bold  and  golden  as  youth,  and  under 
the  influence  of  which  he  told  with  success  the  story  of 
a  certain  night  of  his  college  career. 

He  was  conscious  during  this  period  of  being  agree 
ably  excited  by  wine,  and  he  did  not  care.  And,  on 
reflection  induced  by  cool  and  positive  daylight,  this 
was  the  worst  of  it:  that,  knowing  himself  to  be  influ 
enced  by  wine,  he  had  not  cared.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  professor  had  been  no  more  exhilarated  than  is  con 
sidered  fitting  and  proper  at  a  successful  dinner  party, 
but  shame  was  his  portion  for  several  days  to  come. 

But  worse  than  the  drinking,  smoking,  and  card- 
playing,  was  the  display  of  devotion  between  his  son- 
in-law  and  Mrs.  Hart,  and  the  more  quiet  but  equally 
evident  friendship  that  Gladys  permitted  to  exist  be 
tween  herself  and  the  Frenchman. 

These  various  abominations,  added  to  his  annoyance 
at  being  called  upon  to  automobile  at  a  pace  beyond 
that  prescribed  by  the  laws  and  statutes  of  his  country, 
and  the  impossibility  of  getting  any  but  the  richest  and 
most  highly  seasoned  food  to  eat,  combined  to  make 
the  week  spent  with  his  daughter  one  of  profound  dis 
turbance. 

277 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  have  not  enjoyed  it  very 
much,"  she  said  to  him,  on  the  last  evening  he  spent 
with  her. 

Alphonse  de  Chavannes  was  spending  several  days 
among  the  factory  towns  of  the  region,  and  her  other 
guests  were  playing  bridge. 

The  professor  ignored  her  question.  "  I  feel  as 
though  I  ought  to  tell  you  something,"  he  said  ear 
nestly. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Twice  to-day  I  have  seen  one  of  the  butlers  helping 
himself  to  wine  from  the  sideboard.  Do  you  think  it 
quite  fair  to  subject  him  to  —  to  such  temptation  ?  He 
is  a  very  young  man,  and  it  seems  a  pity  "  —  The  pro 
fessor  paused,  abashed  at  his  own  temerity. 

"It  must  be  Charles,"  said  Gladys.  "I  have  sus 
pected  him  for  some  time,  and  he  broke  my  best  cut- 
glass  decanter  last  week.  I  will  speak  to  Arthur  about 
it,  and  if  he  is  drinking  badly  I  suppose  we  must  get 
another  man,  though  it  is  awfully  hard  to  do  so  in  mid 
summer." 

"  But,  my  dear  —  might  n't  it  be  better  to  remove 
the  temptation  ?  " 

"  Give  up  keeping  our  sideboard  open  ?  " 

"  It  might  be  better  for  every  one,"  said  the  professor 
gravely. 

His  daughter  paused  before  speaking,  and  then  she 
changed  the  subject. 

"  Let  us  go  out,"  she  said.  "  The  night  is  warm  and 
lovely,  and  we  need  not  sit  on  the  piazza  or  the  terrace, 

278 


THE   PROFESSOR  IS   TROUBLED 

but  in  the  field  where  the  apple  trees  are.  It  may  re 
mind  us  of  the  field  in  our  old  home.  Will  you  come, 
papa  ?  " 

"  Surely,  my  dear." 

"  It  is  frightfully  hot  indoors,  but  out  here  in  the 
moonlight  the  night  is  like  a  friend,"  said  Gladys, 
leading  the  way  through  piazza  and  garden  till  they 
came  to  a  field  on  the  hillside  where  the  grass  had  just 
been  cut,  and  the  hay  lay  strewn  as  it  had  fallen  at  the 
mowing. 

Masses  of  vapor  suffused  with  light  hid  the  moon, 
and  brooding  low  over  the  land  wrapped  it  closely  and 
tenderly,  like  some  great  benign  presence,  and  between 
the  vapors  and  the  earth  the  night  lay  shadowless  and 
softly  bright. 

For  a  while  they  were  silent,  and  then  she  began  to 
speak  in  a  low  and  dreamy  monotone. 

"  Is  n't  it  sweet,"  she  said,  and,  pushing  some  hay 
together,  she  made  a  pillow  and  lay  beside  her  father. 
"  Is  n't  it  sweet  and  still  and  warm,  and  how  low  the 
clouds  come !  One  could  almost  touch  them.  They 
seem  to  bend  low  and  kindly  over  us ;  the  whole  night 
is  kind.  It  seems  to  wrap  us  close,  —  close  and  warm. 
I  do  not  think  we  could  be  afraid  of  anything  on  a 
night  like  this.  One  can  rest  on  it  as  on  the  bosom  of 
a  huge,  peaceful  tide,  yield  one's  self  utterly  to  it,  let  it 
unroll  one's  soul.  It  would  be  well  —  ah,  papa,  I  think 
it  would  be  well  to  die,  to  cease  to  be,  on  such  a  night." 

Her  voice  sank  till  it  was  scarcely  audible,  and  her 
father  made  no  answer.  There  was  no  answer  to  make, 

279 


THE   EVASION 

for  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  listening  to  the  voice 
of  a  heart-broken  woman. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  die,  papa?"  she  asked,  after  a 
slight  pause. 

"  No,  my  child." 

"  I  used  to  be  afraid,"  the  voice  continued.  "  Even 
now,  I  am  afraid  of  drowning  or  burning  or  of  being 
shot,  but  I  am  not  afraid  of  dying,  particularly  if  I 
could  die  to-night,  —  sink  deep  into  this  great,  tender 
peace  till  I  sank  into  everlasting  sleep."  She  was  silent 
again,  lying  with  her  arms  stretched  wide  beside  her 
on  the  warm  hay.  "  '  The  peace  of  God  which  passeth 
all  understanding.'  '  The  peace  of  God  which  passeth 
all  understanding,'  "  she  murmured.  "  I  often  want  to 
cry  when  I  hear  that,  for  it  is  so  far  away  from  me. 
But  I  do  not  want  to  cry  to-night.  The  ache  of  living 
is  gone.  Papa,  do  you  believe  in  God  ?  " 

"  Surely  "— 

"  I  wonder  why  —  I  wonder  why  people  believe  in 
God.  Sometimes  I  ask  them,  but  they  never  seem  to 
have  any  real  reason,  yet  they  go  on  believing.  Is  it 
because  He  is  ?  or  because  we  want  Him  so  ?  I  have 
hours  of  great  unhappiness  because  I  cannot  feel  sure 
of  God,  but  to-night  it  does  not  seem  to  make  any 
difference.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  feel  Him  without 
knowing  or  believing." 

"  It  is  good  for  every  one  to  believe  in  God,"  said 
the  professor.  "  It  is  especially  good  for  a  woman  to 
believe." 

Gladys  turned  her  face  toward  him  on  the  hay,  and 
280 


THE  PROFESSOR  IS  TROUBLED 

it  was  light  enough  for  her  father  to  see  that  she  smiled 
faintly. 

"  Do  you  say  that  because  you  think  we  women  are 
so  weak  ?  "  she  asked,  but  added  immediately,  "  It  is 
true ;  we  are  weak.  I  used  to  think  that  I  was  strong, 
and  even  now  I  feel  that  I  could  do  all  things  if  I  be 
lieved  in  one  above  me  and  the  world,  whose  love  and 
wisdom  were  infinite.  But  of  myself  alone  I  can  do 
nothing  —  nothing." 

The  professor  sat  with  his  knees  drawn  up  and  his 
hands  clasped  about  them.  His  daughter  lay  relaxed 
and  motionless,  looking  into  the  luminous  night.  He 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  do?  Why  are  you  un 
happy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  not  unhappy,  at  least,  not  to-night,"  she  an 
swered.  "  But  nothing  seems  to  matter,  that  is  all." 

"  I  should  be  very  unhappy  if  I  thought  we  had 
persuaded  you  against  your  judgment  into  a  marriage 
which  —  perhaps  "  —  The  professor  paused. 

"  But  you  must  never  worry  about  that,  papa,  for  if 
it  were  to  do  over  again  I  would  do  the  same.  When 
I  feel  that  living  is  not  altogether  worth  while,  the  only 
thing  that  makes  it  seem  so  is  the  knowledge  that 
Harold  and  Molly  have  the  opportunities  they  deserved 
through  what  I  have  been  able  to  give  them.  And 
Arthur  has  always  been  a  good  and  loving  husband  to 
me.  You  must  never  regret  that  I  married  as  I  did. 
There  was  nothing  else,  you  see,  and  there  never  could 
have  been." 

281 


THE  EVASION 

"  If  you  had  your  child  "  — 

"  Yes.  There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  I  should  go 
mad  with  the  longing  to  fill  my  empty  arms,  to  feel  his 
little  hand  against  my  face.  But  that  is  gone  now.  He 
is  safe,  you  see  —  my  baby  is  safe.  If  he  had  lived,  all 
my  love  could  not  have  stood  between  him  and  suffer 
ing,  and  suffering  is  so  terrible.  Sometimes  I  do  not 
think  the  song  of  a  million  who  are  happy  can  balance 
the  cry  of  one  who  is  in  pain.  Does  the  gift  of  life 
seem  such  a  precious  thing  to  you,  papa  ?  If  you  knew 
that  a  comet  was  to  destroy  our  earth  to-night,  and 
that  there  would  never  be  any  more  laughter  and  tears, 
would  it  seem  a  terrible  thing? " 

True  to  his  lifelong  habit  of  accurate  thinking,  the 
professor  considered  carefully  before  he  answered,  and 
then  he  said,  "  I  do  not  know,  my  child." 

"  I  talk  like  some  one  who  is  very  old,"  continued 
his  daughter,  "  like  some  one  very  old,  whose  strands 
of  life  are  loosening,  and  who  has  lived  them  all.  But 
I  am  young,  I  have  had  no  real  life,  and  I  know  that  I 
never  shall ;  but  it  does  not  seem  to  matter.  There  was 
a  time  when  an  unfulfilled  life  seemed  to  me  the  sad 
dest  thing  that  could  be ;  but  now  it  makes  so  little  dif 
ference  !  I  could  have  cried  myself  ill,  wished  to  dash 
myself  on  the  ground,  had  I  known  that  I  could  ever 
speak  like  this,  and  not  care.  That  was  during  the  days 
when  I  cared  for  everything.  I  looked  for  the  hours 
when  life  was  to  be  writ  in  flame,  or  when  the  '  wind 
walked  like  a  herald,'  ushering  in  the  passionate,  tragi 
cal,  and  glorious  things.  But  now  something  is  killed 

282 


THE  PROFESSOR  IS  TROUBLED 

in  me,  some  life-spring  broken.  I  do  not  know  what  it 
is.  I  do  not  complain.  And  I  only  ask  not  to  be  made 
to  suffer,  and  to  fill  the  days,  and  to  have  a  few  times 
like  this  in  which  to  rest.  Of  course,  there  is  part  of 
me  that  enjoys  excitement  and  admiration,  that  takes 
a  pleasure  in  jewels  and  beautiful  clothes  and  worldly 
things,  but  that  part  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  real 
woman." 

Neither  of  them  spoke  again,  and  in  the  silence  and 
the  dim  luminousness  of  the  night  Gladys  felt  herself 
sinking  deeper  and  deeper,  as  into  friendly  arms.  Sud 
denly  there  were  voices  and  laughter  in  the  garden 
above,  and  then  the  voice  of  Alphonse  de  Chavannes, 
ringing  with  energy  and  enthusiasm,  rose  above  the 
others, 

"  Yes,  I  hav'  been  down  among  the  people,"  he  cried, 
"  into  the  furnace  where  I  hav '  seen  forging  the  civili 
zation  of  the  future,  red-hot,  distorted,  an '  violent,  but 
destined  to  make  over  the  world.  And  down  there  I 
hav'  met  a  man,  a  Titan.  Not  a  hero  of  the  knights, 
a  hero  of  the  plume,  making  battle  to  trumpets,  but  a 
hero  whos'  work  is  his  glory,  whos'  peril  is  his  joy." 

"  Hear  !  Hear !  "  cried  one  of  the  listeners.  "  Come 
in  for  a  whiskey  and  soda,  de  Chavannes,  and  tell  us 
more  about  it." 

Gladys  rose  as  the  voices  trailed  off  into  silence.  Her 
tiny  person  looked  wan,  eerie,  and  unsubstantial  in  the 
dim,  shadowless  light.  But  she  began  very  practically 
to  pluck  the  hay  from  her  dress. 

"He  is  talking  of  Richard  Copeland,"  she  said, 
-  283 


THE  EVASION 

coldly ;  "  and  the  laboring  people  who  know  him  say 
that  he  has  betrayed  them.  Monsieur  de  Chavannes  is 
an  enthusiast.  He  is  moved  by  his  own  eloquence  even 
more  than  we  are." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AN   AUGUST    NIGHT 


M 


.  ADAME  is  especially  gay  and  especially  onhappy 
since  a  week." 

Gladys  was  seated  on  the  piazza  steps,  and  as  he 
spoke  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  Monsieur  de  Chavannes, 
who  stood  above  her. 

"  I  hope  that  monsieur  is  not  falling  a  victim  to  the 
paradox,"  she  said. 

"  It  pleas'  madame  to  trifle  ?  " 

"  It  is  so  much  too  hot  to  do  anything  else." 

"  Ah,  mon  Dieu,  oui  !  It  is  hot.  What  a  climate  I 
Last  week  we  shivered  in  a  pardessus"  Alphonse 
de  Chavannes  sat  on  the  step  beneath  her  and  wiped 
his  brow  with  frank  discomfort. 

The  weather  had  been  intensely,  breathlessly  hot  all 
day,  and  neither  complete  inactivity  nor  cooling  drinks 
had  sufficed  to  make  humanity  even  comfortable.  It 
was  twilight  now  as  Gladys  and  the  Frenchman  sat 
together  apart  from  the  bridge-players,  whom  the  almost 
unbearable  heat  of  lamps  had  not  driven  from  their 
evening  pastime. 

"  Now  that  your  father  is  gone  I  may  talk  to  you 
again  with  freedom,"  said  Monsieur  de  Chavannes. 

285 


THE   EVASION 

"  He  did  not  like  that  we  talk  so  much.   Hein  I  am  I 
not  right  ?   He  think  that  I  compromis'  you." 

"  My  father  does  not  understand  that  in  my  small 
circle  a  woman  is  not  respected  until  she  is,  in  some 
measure,  compromised,"  said  Gladys,  moving  her  fan 
languidly. 

" Mon  amie"  the  Frenchman  spoke  gently,  "you 
are  bitter  to-night.  You  are  onworthy  of  yourself,  as 
all  these  companious  of  yours  are  onworthy  of  you. 
May  I  say  a  few  things  that  are  on  my  mind  and  in 
my  heart  ?  " 

"  I  am  listening." 

"You  are  unefemme  spirituelle,  and  you  have  come 
to  live  among  des  sots,  among  the  small  '  smart  set '  in 
your  city,  who  imitate  the  morals  and  manners  of  those 
whose  pride  it  is  to  have  neither,  yet  who  lead  society 
in  New  York  and  Newport.  Why  is  this,  madame  ?  " 

"  That  would  be  the  story  of  my  life,  monsieur." 

"  But  why  do  you  stay  among  them  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  hold  my  husband  to  any  other  life." 

"  Why  hold  him  to  any  life,  madame  ?  Why  hold 
him  to  any?  " 

She  laughed  softly.  "  You  speak  boldly,  Monsieur 
de  Chavannes." 

At  that  moment  her  husband  and  Diana  Hart 
emerged  from  the  house  at  the  other  end  of  the  piazza 
and  passed  together  into  the  twilight. 

"  Is  it  permit  that  I  add  a  word  ? "  continued  the 
Frenchman. 

"  It  will  be  interesting,  I  am  sure." 
286 


AN   AUGUST  NIGHT 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  hold  him  at  all,  even  if  you 
will?" 

"  You  speak  boldly,"  she  said  again,  with  the  same 
delicate  indifference  of  manner. 

"  We  others  are  not  afraid  to  speak  to  a  human 
being  independently  of  man-made  laws.  Do  not  think 
that  I  recognize  any  law  which  could  prevent  me  from 
making  the  lov'  to  you,  had  not " 

"  I  know.  There  is  the  other  woman.  It  was  con 
siderate  of  you  to  have  told  rne  that  at  first." 

"  It  is  not  altogether  the  other  woman,  madame,  it  is 
yourself.  It  is  true  that  the  one  I  have  lov '  is  still  near 
to  my  heart,  but  I  know  that  she  is  never  for  me,  and 
you  are  one  of  those  who  have  power  over  men  even 
when  they  lov'  another.  But  you  are  as  ice,  madame. 
We  talk  so  moch  together  becos'  it  is  inevitable  that 
we  should  talk  as  that  winds  should  blow  and  water 
run  down  hill,  but  beyon'  that  you  give  me  nothing." 

"  Yet  we  have  played  with  fire  quite  prettily  now 
and  then." 

"  I  do  speak  not  of  play,  madame ;  you  are  not  a 
woman  to  play  with,  neither  are  you  one  to  be  indif 
ferent  to  men,  whether  you  lov'  them  or  not.  Yet 
you  are  indifferent  to  all  the  men  about  you,  and  so 
I  mus '  infer  that  there  is  one  man  who  is  not  about 
you"  — 

"  Monsieur  de  Chavannes !  " 

"  Madame  ?  " 

"  In  my  country  it  is  not  customary  to  speak  to 
women  as  you  are  speaking  to  me." 

287 


THE   EVASION 

"And  I  care  not  for  what  is  your  costom.  Thert, 
are  things  older  and  greater  than  costom,  and  one  is 
the  lov '  of  any  man  for  any  woman.  With  this  great 
natural  force  the  union  enforce'  by  law  and  called 
marriage  has  nothing  to  do,  no  smallest  thing.  On 
that  point  I  ana  as  great  a  revolutionist  as  my  friend 
Copeland." 

"Pray,  monsieur,  do  not  talk  to  me  any  more  of 
Mr.  Copeland.  He  is  an  incendiary  person,  and  it  is 
so  very  warm  already." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  do  not  like  him.  He  is  a  splendid 
fellow." 

"There  are  some  who  think  him —  But  positively 
I  will  not  discuss  it.  Diana ! "  she  called  lightly  to 
Mrs.  Hart,  who  strolled  back  through  the  garden  with 
Arthur.  "  Diana  !  come  and  protect  me,  and  you,  too, 
Arthur.  Monsieur  de  Chavannes  has  begun  to  discuss 
revolution  in  general  and  Richard  Copeland  in  par 
ticular." 

"That  dreadful  person,"  said  Diana  languidly, 
"  who  grudges  us  our  lace  dresses,  our  cool  rooms,  our 
iced  drinks,  and  even  the  servants  who  prepare  them 
for  us." 

"  He  only  grudge  them  to  you  when  they  are  pur 
chased  at  the  expense  of  those  who  hav'  far  less  than 
yourselves." 

"  Are  you  still  discussing  the  poor  man  ? "  Mrs. 
Stanwood's  voice  rallied  them  gayly  as  she  came  from 
the  house.  "  Pour  Vamour  de  Dieu,  mes  enfants,  find 
a  more  peaceful  occupation.  What  are  you  going  to 

288 


do  with  us,  Gladys,  between  now  and  bedtime  ?  It  is 
too  hot  for  any  more  bridge." 

"  I  think  we  have  done  everything  there  is  to  do," 
said  Gladys.  "  What  more  can  any  one  suggest,  unless 
we  start  and  do  it  all  over  again?  " 

"  I  should  suggest  a  drink ;  perhaps  it  will  give  us 
an  idea,"  said  Arthur.  "  Come  in,  de  Chavannes.  Shall 
I  mix  you  a  Martini,  Diana?" 

"  I  will  go  in  and  mix  it  myself.    Coming,  Gladys  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  cooler  here,"  and  Gladys  remained  alone 
sitting  on  the  steps. 

Somewhere  down  in  the  factory  towns  people  were 
fighting  and  struggling,  and  among  them  was  the  man 
whose  name  grew  more  and  more  hateful  to  her  as  it 
grew  the  more  impossible  to  escape.  But  the  thought 
of  these  things  did  not  move  her  to-night  as  she  leaned 
against  a  pillar  and  looked  upwards  into  the  foliage  of 
her  maple  trees. 

All  day  the  leaves  had  hung  motionless ;  but  sud 
denly  while  she  watched  them  they  began  to  move,  to 
whisper  and  shiver  among  themselves.  They  became 
restless,  vigilant,  there  was  tumult  among  them,  and 
something  of  fear.  The  air  which  had  lain  like  warm 
and  lifeless  water  over  the  land  began  to  stir  also,  and 
the  night  became  full  of  movement  and  half-uttered 
meanings.  An  awning  above  her  head  flapped  sud 
denly  and  a  puff  of  wind  blew  some  road  dust  into  her 
face.  She  rose,  choking  and  disgusted,  but  alert,  and 
inexplicably  alive. 

"  The  night  seems  to  be  preparing  for  something," 
289 


THE   EVASION 

she  thought.  "  I  wonder  what  it  is  going  to  be."  And 
then  the  thought  of  danger  came  to  her.  "  How  good 
to  be  in  danger,"  she  said,  "  how  good  to  be  in  dan 
ger  of  something  beside  a  headache,  or  the  tearing  of 
a  new  dress,  or  the  failure  of  the  oysters  to  arrive  for 
dinner! " 

As  she  spoke  the  wind  passed  through  the  woods 
like  a  long-drawn  breath,  fell  silent,  and  came  again 
more  strongly,  so  that  it  swayed  the  topmost  branches 
of  the  maples  and  blew  her  lace  scarf  against  her  face. 
The  breath  of  it  was  feverish :  it  seemed  to  have  passed 
over  violence  and  ugly  passions,  and  with  it,  poig 
nantly  and  intolerably  vivid  returned  the  thought  of 
the  struggle  that  was  raging  just  beyond  the  shelter  of 
her  own  acres,  and  of  the  man  who  fought  in  its  midst. 

The  night  with  its  rising  tumult  of  suggestions  be 
came  a  thing  not  to  be  endured,  and  Gladys  sought 
refuge  in  her  house,  where  the  stored  heat  of  midsum 
mer  lay  breathless  and  undisturbed.  In  the  billiard 
room  she  found  her  guests ;  the  men  alternately  sip 
ping  whiskey  and  soda  and  pretending  to  play,  while 
Diana  Hart  and  Mrs.  Stanwood  talked  to  each  other 
over  a  table  containing  several  empty  cocktail  glasses 
and  a  cigarette  box.  They  sat  close  to  the  wide-open 
glass  doors  which  were  screened  by  wire  netting. 

"We  are  discussing  husbands,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  as 
her  hostess  approached  them. 

"  One  might  say  so  many  things  about  husbands," 
Gladys  answered,  seating  herself  near  them  on  a  formal 
pile  of  cushions. 

290 


AN  AUGUST  NIGHT 

*'  Diana  was  sympathizing  with  me  for  having  to 
superintend  the  packing  of  Willie's  beetles  twice  a 
year  when  we  move,"  explained  Mrs.  Stanwood,  "and 
I  don't  deny  the  trial  of  it ;  but  every  husband  must 
have  an  absorbing  interest  apart  from  his  wife.  Some 
have  other  men's  wives,  some  have  fast  horses,  some 
have  cards.  Willie  has  beetles.  It  might  be  worse." 

One  of  the  men  at  the  billiard  table  laughed  without 
turning. 

"You  must  not  listen.  The  conversation  is  not  for 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Hart. 

"  I  was  n't  listening.  Morrison  made  a  miss-cue ; 
that's  why  I  laughed.  Get  to  work,  Davenport.  The 
next  move  is  up  to  you." 

The  indifference  of  his  tone  and  attitude  was  almost 
insolent,  and  Gladys,  in  the  mood  of  strange  alertness 
that  had  come  to  her  through  the  night  with  the  first 
puff  of  hot  wind,  saw  the  occupations  of  these  men  and 
women  as  a  degeneracy  of  actual  living,  and  in  her 
loathing  of  them  and  it,  she  could  have  almost  cried 
aloud. 

"  Speaking  of  husbands,"  continued  Mrs.  Hart,  un 
der  cover  of  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the  men  about 
the  billiard  table,  "  speaking  of  husbands,  I  thought  I 
would  tell  you  as  my  nearest  friends  that  I  have  my 
divorce  at  last,  and  received  the  papers  this  after 
noon." 

"  I  congratulate  you,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Stanwood. 

"  Thanks,"  answered  Diana  tranquilly ;  "  Jack  was 
a  brnte,  and  I  am  well  rid  of  him." 

291 


THE   EVASION 

A  short  silence  followed,  in  which  there  fell  an  ex 
clamation  of  acute  misery  from  the  Frenchman. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  qu'llfait  chaud  !    C'est  a  mourir" 

"  Have  another  whiskey  and  soda,  de  Chavannes." 

"  Thank  you,  my  friend ;  I  cannot  control  the  fire  in 
the  air,  but  I  can  abstain  from  taking  it  internally." 

Arthur,  chalking  a  billiard  cue,  approached  his  wife. 

"  I  say,  Gladys,"  he  whispered,  "  can't  you  get  Diana 
and  Aunt  Edith  away  on  some  pretext  or  other  ?  We 
men  must  take  off  our  coats,  or  something  desperate 
will  happen." 

"  Poor  boy !  you  must  be  uncomfortable.  I  will  do 
my  best." 

"What  was  that?"  exclaimed  Morrison  suddenly. 

"What?" 

"  I  heard  an  awning  flap.  There  it  goes  again.  That 
means  wind.  The  weather  has  changed,  and  it  may  be 
cooler.  Get  that  infernal  wire  netting  of  yours  open, 
Davenport ;  it  keeps  out  what  air  there  is." 

"  The  mosquitoes,"  protested  some  one  feebly,  but 
Arthur  opened  wide  the  screen  door. 

"It's  worse  than  ever,"  exclaimed  Morrison,  dis 
gusted  as  he  felt  a  feverish  breath  on  his  face,  "  and 
the  moon  has  just  come  up  to  grin  at  us.  Did  you  ever 
see  a  more  battered-looking  person  !  What  is  the  mat 
ter  with  her  ?  " 

"  She  is  waning,"  said  Gladys,  stepping  out  to  see 
the  moon,  red-hot  and  distorted,  hanging  just  above 
the  horizon.  "  She  is  dying,  and  oh,  she  is  old !  " 

"  And  tipsy." 

292 


AN  AUGUST  NIGHT 

"  And  disreputable." 

"  I  almost  saw  her  wink.  Here 's  to  her."  The  stock 
broker  held  his  glass  up  to  the  luminary  and  drank. 

"  The  mosquitoes  are  coming  in,"  said  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood.  "  Please  come  in  yourselves,  or  shut  the  screens 
behind  you." 

The  men  came  back  as  requested,  and  returned  to 
the  billiard  table.  Morrison  alone  peered  out  through 
the  wire  netting. 

"  Look  at  the  light  above  your  famous  factory  town, 
de  Chavannes.  I  rather  think  there  is  hell  down  there 
to-night." 

"Not  hell,  my  friend.  Danger  and  soffering,  yes; 
but  not  hell.  The  real  tragedy  of  life  is  not  with  those 
who  stroggle,  —  who  lead  forlorn  hopes  "  — 

"  And  lose  them,"  said  a  man  at  the  billiard  table. 

"  The  losing  is  not  the  point,"  answered  the  French 
man  rapidly,  with  one  of  his  vivid  gestures.  "  It  is  not 
the  failure  to  win  that  counts,  but  the  glory  that  there 
are  men  to  dare." 

"  Please  let  up  on  that,  de  Chavannes,"  said  Mor 
rison,  with  unexpected  gravity ;  "  I  don't  feel  as  though 
I  could  stand  it  to-night.  I  heard  something  just  be 
fore  dinner  about  poor  Copeland,  and  I  have  been 
rather  sick  ever  since." 

"  My  frien'  Copeland  in  treble,  an'  you  never  tell 
me !  "  cried  Alphonse  de  Chavannes. 

"Can't  we  drop  Copeland  as  well  as  his  work?" 
said  Arthur  sullenly,  with  his  back  turned,  as  he  played 
with  billiard  balls. 

293 


THE   EVASION 

"  You  might  as  well  come  out  with  it,  now  that  you 
have  begun,"  said  the  stockbroker.  "I  never  could 
help  sort  of  liking  the  fellow  in  spite  of  "  —  he  paused, 
looking  at  the  three  women  ;  but  Mrs.  Hart  lit  another 
cigarette  indifferently. 

"  Do  not  mind  us,"  she  said. 

"  Gladys  looks  pale,"  said  Mrs.  Stanwood,  "  and  I 
think  we  will  go." 

But  Gladys,  standing  white  and  still,  did  not  hear. 

"  What  has  happened  to  Dick  Copeland  ?  "  she  asked. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  the  world  had  suddenly  stopped, 
that  movement  and  light  and  sound  had  gone  out  of  it. 
Somewhere  in  the  void  she  heard  her  own  voice  asking, 
"Is  he  dead?" 

"  No,  he  is  not  dead,  but "  —   He  paused. 

Sensation,  torturing,  tumultuous,  returned  to  her. 
She  reeled  under  it,  and  put  her  hand  against  the  wall 
to  save  herself  from  falling.  She  wanted  to  shriek 
aloud,  she  wanted  to  tear  his  news  from  Morrison  with 
her  hands.  Dimly  she  heard  her  aunt's  whisper :  — 

"  Take  care  that  no  one  sees,  cherie  !  " 

And  then  there  were  eager  questions,  and  at  last 
Morrison's  explanation. 

"  It  was  that  head  gardener  of  yours,  Davenport,  who 
told  me.  He  had  been  down  to  visit  his  brother  at  the 
cotton  mills,  and  got  home  just  before  dinner.  We  all 
knew  Copeland  was  in  trouble  :  de  Chavannes  explained 
about  the  disaffection  in  his  own  mills,  and  the  anger 
caused  by  his  attitude  on  the  open-shop  question.  It  ap 
pears  the  feeling  against  him  reached  a  climax  last  Mon- 

294 


AN  AUGUST  NIGHT 

day,  when  he  openly  joined  the  non-union  skilled  work 
men  who  were  hired  to  break  the  strike  at  Riverbend. 
It  was  a  mad  thing  to  do.  His  own  men  turned  against 
him.  The  laboring  classes  considered  him  a  Judas.  He 
had  come  among  them,  they  said,  to  win  their  confi 
dence  and  betray  it,  But  the  point  is  that  yesterday 
morning  something  went  wrong  with  the  loom  Copeland 
was  working  at.  He  was  caught  in  it  and  —  pass  along 
the  whiskey !  —  none  of  the  workers  near  him  would 
do  anything,  which  gives  the  suspicion  of  foul  play. 
They  say  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  great  strength  he 
would  have  been  thoroughly  smashed  up.  As  it  was, 
he  contrived  to  break  or  stop  something,  but  not  before 
the  machine  had  done  for  his  right  arm,  which,  accord 
ing  to  report,  was  taken  off  by  the  attending  surgeon  an 
hour  later.  I  am  sorry,  Diana.  It  is  n't  a  nice  story, 
but  you  were  warned." 

"  There  is  something  especially  gruesome  about  being 
caught  in  a  machine,"  admitted  Mrs.  Hart,  "  and  one 
hates  to  think  of  a  superb  animal  like  Dick  Copeland 
being  mauled  up  like  that.  But  some  one  ought  to  look 
after  Gladys,  —  I  think  she  is  going  to  faint." 

"  Gladys  is  all  right,"  Mrs.  Stanwood  assured  them. 
"  She  never  could  bear  to  hear  of  things  being  hurt, 
and  after  the  strain  of  this  heat  —  but  you  might  bring 
a  little  whiskey,  Arthur.  —  You  must  drink  it,  cherie, 
for  your  own  self-defense,"  she  added,  in  an  aside,  and 
Gladys  drank,  seated  on  the  ottoman  beside  her  aunt. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  being  torn  by  the  same 
awful  machine  that  had  crushed  Dick.  Relentless  hands 

295 


THE   EVASION 

were  at  her  throat,  grappling  with  her  breath  and  stop 
ping  her  heart,  and  there  was  still  upon  her  the  need 
to  shriek. 

"  The  Frenchman  is  looking,  cAerie,"  her  aunt's 
warning  came  again;  and  because  the  fear  of  pride 
degraded,  and  emotion  betrayed,  is  as  strong  as  life, 
Gladys  smiled  and  put  aside  offers  of  help. 

"  Of  course  these  things  happen  all  the  time,"  con 
tinued  Morrison,  putting  down  his  glass.  "  It 's  only 
having  it  occur  under  your  own  window,  so  to  speak, 
while  you  are  fooling  with  cool  drinks  and  comfort, 
that  makes  you  feel  weak-kneed,  particularly  when  it 
happens  to  one  of  your  own  classmates,  who,  whatever 
he  may  have  done  since,  has  one  time  stood  at  your 
shoulder  through  the  freshman  rush,  and  helped  you 
with  Greek  hexameters." 

"  Mon  Dieu  I  it  is  awful !  "  groaned  de  Chavannes, 
with  his  head  in  his  hands.  "  He  was  mad  to  do  it. 
But  what  superb  courage !  the  courage  of  martyrs  and 
fools,  who  consider  not  that  which  is  expedient,  or  that 
which  has  common  sense  !  The  courage  " 

"  Courage  be ! "  interrupted  Morrison  with  im 
patience.  "Every  man  who  is  worth  anything  and 
does  not  vitiate  himself  with  amusement  can  stand  up 
for  what  he  thinks  is  right." 

The  Frenchman  started  but  said  nothing,  for  if  he 
did  not  understand,  he  was  still  learning  to  recognize 
and  accept  what  seemed  to  him  the  rough  brutality 
with  which  the  Anglo-Saxon  male  treats  his  friends. 

"  What  matters  now  is  that  feeling  against  Copeland 
296 


AN  AUGUST  NIGHT 

is  as  high  as  ever,"  continued  Morrison.  "They  are  re 
solved  to  make  an  end  of  him  entirely.  He  is  physically 
unable  to  defend  himself,  and  the  attack  against  him  is 
likely  to  be  a  personal  one." 

"  But  the  police  —  where  is  your  police  ?  Is  this 
a  civiliz'  country  —  or  not  ?  " 

"  Not,  my  friend ;  emphatically  not,  and  don't  forget 
to  put  that  in  your  next  lecture  about  us.  There  are 
enough  raw  and  lawless  elements  in  the  United  States 
to  set  Europe  in  a  blaze  from  end  to  end  could  they  be 
transported.  But  Copeland  could  get  himself  protected 
if  he  would,  and  it's  part  of  his  general  madness  that  he 
won't.  He  is  out  there  alone  in  his  cabin  in  the  woods. 
The  Lord  knows  who  is  looking  after  him  !  " 

"  Then  he  is  still  in  danger  of  his  life.  Can  we  —  mes 
amis,  I  ask  it  as  man  to  man  —  can  we  permit  this  ?  " 

Arthur,  who  was  very  pale,  moved  uneasily  up  and 
down  the  room. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we  can  do  about  it,"  he  mut 
tered. 

"  But  surely  —  with  your  servants,  your  automo 
bile  "- 

"  The  auto  is  broken  and  there  is  not  a  servant  who 
would  help  him.  You  see,  he  has  betrayed  them." 

"  Betrayed !     And  you  admit  he  is  your  frien' !  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  There  is  where  you  are  dead  wrong. 
Dick  Copeland  is  no  friend  of  mine." 

Arthur  wiped  his  forehead  with  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
and  when  he  was  next  wanted  he  had  left  the  room. 

"  Does  no  one  know  where  his  cabin  is  ?  " 
297 


THE   EVASION 

"  It 's  miles  away,  and  I  hardly  know  in  which  direc, 
tion." 

"  Mon  Dieu !  But  this  is  horrible !  and  one  can  do 
nothing  —  nothing !  " 

"  You  are  cowards  !  "  said  Gladys,  very  low.  She  had 
risen,  and  they  looked  at  her,  startled. 

"  She  is  like  a  white-hot  flame,"  thought  the  French 
man;  but  then  he  saw  something  else  in  her  face,  and 
forgot  to  make  further  simile. 

"  If  you  can  suggest  anything,  we  will  do  it,  Mrs. 
Davenport,"  said  Morrison  gravely. 

"Cowards!"  she  repeated,  "Cowards  all  of  you," 
and  passed  swiftly  from  the  room. 

The  men  stared  after  her  blankly.  "Jove !  "  said  the 
stockbroker,  after  a  pause.  "  Jove !  "  he  repeated, 
"would  you  think  little  Mrs.  Davenport  had  that 
amount  of  the  tiger  to  her  ?  " 

The  Frenchman  said  nothing,  but  took  advantage  of 
general  stupefaction  to  follow  his  hostess. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AN   AWAKENING 

"LADYS  stumbled  in  the  darkness  of  her  telephone 
room.  Emotion,  huge,  terrible,  merciless  as  the  ma 
chine  which  had  torn  Dick  Copeland,  bore  down  upon 
her. 

Her  shaking  hands  missed  the  switch  that  commanded 
a  light,  and  after  finding  the  telephone  receiver  a  me 
tallic  buzz  was  the  only  message  the  wires  brought  her. 
She  rang  again  and  again. 

"  I  shall  go  mad  if  they  do  not  answer !  I  shall  go 
mad!"  she  sobbed. 

Then  she  feared  that  she  could  not  hear  a  voice  be 
cause  of  the  dreadful  hammering  of  her  heart,  and  that 
she  would  be  unable  to  answer  because  of  the  blood 
which  seemed  coming  into  her  throat. 

A  faint  "  hello  "  reached  her  at  last,  the  mere  phan 
tom  of  a  voice  that  came  from  nowhere,  drifted  past 
her,  and  was  lost.  But  she  called,  and  the  wires  brought 
it  to  her  again. 

"  I  want  to  be  put  into  connection  with  the  Copeland 
settlement,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  dim  voice  wandered 
past  her  again  in  disjointed  shreds  of  words  that  seemed 
swept  and  torn  as  by  great  winds.  Soul  and  body  were 

299 


THE  EVASION 

strained  to  hear,  but  "  Copeland,"  "'phone,"  "impossi 
ble  "  was  all  she  heard. 

"  I  can't  hear  on  account  of  the  noise,"  she  called. 
"  For  the  love  of  God,  stop  the  buzzing  on  the  wires  ! 
Can't  you  stop  it  ?  " 

Almost  immediately  there  was  silence,  and  then  a 
voice  spoke  suddenly  in  her  ear. 

"  You  want  Copeland's  settlement  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  guess  they  are  not  answering  the  'phone 
there  to-night ;  they  are  too  busy  firing  the  mills." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Probably  at  his  cabin." 

"  Who  is  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  has  exactly  a  guard  of  friends." 

"  But  he  is  in  danger.  Somebody  must  be  there  — 
give  me  his  line." 

"  The  strikers  cut  that  yesterday." 

Gladys  felt  that  she  was  going  to  fall,  but  her 
parched  lips  found  the  receiver  again. 

"  I  am  a  friend  of  Mr.  Copeland  —  are  you  listen 
ing?  Hello  !  Are  you  there?  " 

"  Where  should  I  be  ?   Who  is  it,  please  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Davenport.  We  are  friends  of  Mr.  Copeland's, 
and  he  must  be  warned  of  his  danger.  He  must  be 
saved.  Are  you  alone  in  the  office  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am.   Worse  luck !  " 

"  Can't  you  call  some  one  ?  Or  telephone  some  one 
who  will  find  men  to  go  to  him,  to  take  him  away? 
He  must  not  be  left  there.  Pie  will  be  murdered. 

300 


AN  AWAKENING 

Money  is  no  object.  Think,  Central,  think  what  can 
be  done." 

"  I  guess  there  is  n't  much  to  be  done,"  came  the 
answer  sullenly,  "  and  I  guess  Dick  Copeland  can  take 
care  of  himself  as  well  as  he  deserves.  He  has  done 
harm  enough  and  to  spare,  and  there  is  n't  a  man  to 
night  that  I  know  of  who  could  be  hired  to  help  him." 

"  But  he  is  ill  —  he  is  crippled  "  — 

"  So  are  a  good  many  others.  I  don't  know  of  an 
able-bodied  man  in  town  to-night  that  has  n't  gone  to 
the  fires,  and  I  have  my  work.  Good-by." 

The  receiver  dropped  from  her  hands,  and,  leaning 
against  the  wall  for  support,  Gladys  tried  to  think.  He 
was  crippled,  and  his  life  was  threatened.  Who  was 
there  to  warn  or  save  him  ?  "  No  one  ! "  she  cried  ; 
"  there  is  no  one !  "  The  next  moment  she  herself  ran 
out  into  the  night. 

Unwilling  to  waste  time  on  the  spacious  curves  of 
her  avenue  she  took  a  path  through  the  woods,  where, 
missing  her  way  in  the  darkness,  she  stumbled  often. 
The  bushes  seemed  to  stretch  out  cruel  hands  to  tear 
the  laces  and  muslin  of  her  dress,  and  the  cat-briers 
caught  her  ankles.  Reaching  the  high  road  at  last,  she 
turned  in  the  direction  of  Dick's  cabin,  the  exact  posi 
tion  of  which  she  knew  well,  and  forced  herself  to  walk, 
or  her  gasping  breath  and  thinly  shod  feet  would  not 
have  carried  her  far.  The  night  was  now  full  of  hot 
wind,  and  the  elms  that  followed  the  high  road  bent 
dismayed  and  tortured  before  it.  Now  and  then  the 
sky  pulsated  with  a  red  and  awful  light  from  which  she 

301 


THE   EVASION 

hid  her  face,  for  it  meant  that  his  mills  were  burning. 
Only  a  few  people  passed,  and  once  an  electric  car 
clanged  by  her  with  a  load  of  singing,  half-drunken 
men.  At  the  thought  that  they  might  be  strikers  on 
their  way  to  him,  the  blood  seemed  to  come  up  in  her 
throat  again.  She  feared  to  fall,  and  for  one  moment 
permitted  herself  to  sit  on  a  stone  by  the  roadside. 
Then  she  asked  herself  why  she  was  doing  this  thing, 
why  she  was  rushing  through  pain  and  danger  to  save 
an  outcast,  a  man  whom  she  despised. 

And  then  she  answered  herself  clearly  at  last. 

"  Because  I  love  him." 

The  misery  and  apathy  of  her  life  stood  explained. 
"  I  love  him !  I  have  loved  him  always,"  she  whis 
pered. 

But  the  next  moment  neither  her  love  nor  the  joy 
nor  the  shame  of  it  mattered.  He  was  in  danger  of  his 
life,  and  she  must  go  to  him. 

With  the  wind  at  her  back  straining  at  her  scarf  and 
laces  and  tossing  them  in  front  of  her  as  she  ran» 
stumbling  often  in  her  thin  high-heeled  slippers,  and 
gasping  because  of  her  haste  and  the  hard  sobs  that 
tightened  her  throat,  she  went  on  and  on  over  the  dusty 
high  road  till  she  came  at  last  to  the  clearing,  back  of 
which  she  knew  that  Dick's  cabin  was  hidden  in  the 
woods.  Through  the  trees  she  caught  a  cool  gleam  of 
moonlight  on  the  river  as  it  slipped  tranquilly  under  a 
wooded  bend  of  land  that  backed  against  the  wind. 

Now  that  she  had  come  to  the  place  and  the  man  she 
paused,  afraid,  and  wondering  if  she  could  find  the 

302 


AN  AWAKENING 

strength  to  face  him.  But  through  the  tumult  in  the 
trees  and  bushes  she  heard  faintly,  though  distinctly,  a 
voice  shouting  behind  her,  and  then  rapid  footsteps  on 
the  road.  She  sped  into  the  woods  by  a  pathway  that 
could  be  scarcely  more  than  imagined  in  the  confusion 
of  moonlight  and  shadow.  Again  her  dress  and  hair 
were  torn,  and  she  tripped  often  over  half-sunken  roots 
and  creeping  vines  ;  but  before  expecting  it  she  found 
herself  in  another  clearing,  protected  from  the  wind, 
where  it  was  wondrously  still.  And  there  a  small  cabin, 
dark  and  silent,  slept  in  the  moonlight,  while  just  be 
yond  it  the  river  flowed  by,  with  dimples  and  silken 
folds  of  silver  gleaming  and  vanishing  on  its  peaceful 
surface. 

There  was  no  sound  but  the  wash  of  wind  in  dis 
tant  treetops,  nor  any  crack  of  light  to  be  seen  in  the 
cabin.  Absolute  loneliness,  but  peace  and  security  as 
well,  seemed  to  dwell  here.  Moving  toward  the  front 
of  the  house  she  was  startled  by  an  odor  of  fresh  to 
bacco  smoke,  and,  turning  the  corner,  she  came  upon 
some  one  sitting  on  the  doorstep. 

It  was  too  late  for  any  attempt  to  hide,  for  she  stood 
an  isolated  figure  in  the  moonlit  space,  and  motionless, 
with  suspended  breath,  she  faced  the  man,  whose  face 
she  could  not  see. 

For  a  moment  he  looked  at  her  without  stirring,  but 
then  he  rose,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  Dick,  and  that  his 
right  arm  was  in  a  sling. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

So  the  story  of  his  mutilation  was  not  true.  An 
303 


THE   EVASION 

agony  of  pity  was  lifted  from  her,  but  the  sound  of 
his  voice  coming  after  the  silent  years  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

He  came  down  the  few  steps  that  led  to  the  turf,  and 
paused  suddenly. 

"  It  is  you  !  "  he  said  slowly.  "  It  is  you  !  " 

In  the  silence  that  followed  she  heard  again  a  man 
shouting  on  the  road. 

"  Hush !  Hush !  "  she  whispered.  "  Do  not  speak. 
They  are  trying  to  find  the  way  in.  Some  one  followed 
me.  I  ran  —  I" —  Her  voice  failed,  and  he  caught 
her  as  she  was  about  to  fall. 

"  There  is  no  one,"  he  said  steadily.  "  Listen.  It  is 
quite  still.  There  is  no  one." 

For  one  moment  she  lay  in  the  curve  of  his  arm  as 
lightly  and  helplessly  as  a  broken  bird. 

"They  have  gone  by,"  she  said.  "  Thank  God  !  they 
have  gone  by,"  and,  lifting  herself,  she  drew  away,  and 
pushed  the  hair  from  her  eyes  that  she  might  look  at 
him. 

"  You  must  not  stay  here,"  he  continued.  "  People 
are  likely  to  come  to-night,  and  if  you  were  found  —  I 
will  walk  back  with  you  from  wherever  you  came.  That 
will  be  the  best  way.  Shall  we  go  at  once?" 

"  Yes,  yes !  that  would  be  best,  that  would  be  safest. 
No  one  will  think  of  finding  you  with  me.  Come." 

Her  disjointed,  incoherent  phrases  might  have  been 
those  of  one  in  an  agony  of  personal  fear,  and  to  Dick 
they  could  seem  to  mean  nothing  else. 

But  Gladys  was  physically  incapable  of  further  effort. 
304 


AN  AWAKENING 

At  her  first  movement  toward  the  road  she  put  her 
hand  to  her  throat. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  said.  "  I  ran  all  the  way  —  I  cannot 
go  any  further."  And,  half  lifting  her,  Dick  led  her  to 
the  house. 

To  secure  the  blinds  so  that  no  one  could  look  in  was 
the  work  of  an  instant,  and  then  Gladys,  who  had  sunk 
into  the  chair  he  placed  for  her,  heard  him  searching 
in  the  dark  for  matches,  and  once  or  twice  muttering 
savage  things  under  his  breath.  When  he  had  found 
them  and  lit  a  small  lamp,  she  was  sitting  with  her 
arms  flung  across  the  table  and  her  head  dropped  upon 
them. 

"  You  must  drink  some  of  this,"  he  said,  putting  a 
small  glass  by  her  and  pouring  some  whiskey  into  it. 

Very  obediently  she  drank,  and  then,  in  the  light  of 
the  evil-smelling  kerosene  lamp,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to 
his  face.  It  was  a  stern,  lonely,  and  desolate  face,  with 
large-boned  features  gauntly  prominent,  and  dark, 
heavy  lines  of  physical  pain  under  sunken  eyes. 

The  desolation  and  the  look  of  pain  smote  her,  so 
that  she  forgot  herself  and  the  secret  she  must  guard. 

"  How  you  have  changed  !  "  she  said  slowly  and  very 
low. 

"  You  are  the  same,"  he  answered. 

"  Can  a  face  lie  so  well  ?  "  she  murmured,  and  added 
brokenly,  "  It  was  long  ago." 

"  It  was  only  yesterday." 

She  shivered,  and  put  her  clasped  hands,  paln?s  *mt- 
wards,  before  her  eyes. 

305 


THE   EVASION 

"  If  he  spoke  to  me  of  love,  —  if  he  even  put  out  his 
hand  to  touch  me,  —  should  I  not  be  at  his  mercy  ?  "  she 
thought,  and  then,  rising  swiftly,  she  put  the  width  of 
the  room  between  them. 

Dick  stood  by  the  table,  with  his  eyes  turned  from 
her. 

"  You  cannot  stay,"  he  said.  "  People  are  likely  to 
come  here." 

"  What  people  ?  " 

"  No  friends,  and  I  can  neither  hide  you,  nor,  I  fear, 
protect  you." 

"  Your  enemies,  then,  your  enemies  !  You  are  still 
in  danger !  "  Her  voice,  strained  and  breathless,  was 
escaping  her  control,  but  she  forced  herself  to  add  qui 
etly,  "  What  do  you  suggest  ?  I  cannot  go  alone,  you 
must  see  that.  It  would  be  dangerous  for  me  to-night." 

"  I  will  go  with  you  as  far  as  the  livery  stable.  I 
know  a  good  man  who  will  take  you  safely." 

"  And  after  that?"  - 

"  He  will  drive  you  home,  of  course." 

"  And  you  ?  "  - 

"  I  shall  come  back." 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  wondering  how  she  could 
keep  him  from  reaching  the  stable. 

"  Perhaps  we  could  find  your  own  horse,"  he  sug 
gested.  All  this  time  they  dared  not  look  at  each 
other. 

"  That  would  be  impossible,"  she  said. 

"  So  I  feared.  You  seemed  to  have  been  running  a 
long  way  when  you  came." 

306 


AN  AWAKENING 

"  I  had  run  far." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Gladys  lifted  her  eyes 
from  her  locked  fingers  and  looked  about  the  room. 
She  noted  its  bareness  and  discomfort,  the  disorder 
of  the  shelves,  a  loaf  of  bread  half  cut,  an  ink-bottle 
beside  which  some  ink  had  been  spilled  and  not  wiped 
away.  Everywhere  were  evidences  of  Dick's  clumsy 
effort  to  do  his  housekeeping  with  one  hand.  On  a 
nail  beside  a  bookshelf  was  an  old  coat  with  three  but 
tons  gone,  and  nowhere  was  there  a  comfortable  chair 
in  which  a  sick  man  might  sit  at  ease. 

These  things  made  a  background  of  loneliness  and 
neglect  for  him  which  she  carried  with  her  for  long 
days. 

Over  the  door  was  a  football,  and  hanging  by  it  a 
boy's  fishing  cap  with  a  crimson  H  upon  it.  It  was 
a  relic  of  Dick's  college  days,  and  she  recognized  it 
immediately.  He  had  worn  it  once,  —  she  remembered 
the  place  and  the  hour,  the  sun  on  the  water,  the  wide 
sky,  the  moving  of  winds  and  light.  She  remembered 
the  look  in  his  eyes,  the  words  on  his  lips.  Life  had 
wooed  her  exquisitely  in  those  days.  The  Possible,  a 
thing  of  glamour,  and  mystery,  and  infinite  promise, 
had  walked  at  her  side. 

Suddenly  she  knew  that  Dick  was  looking  at  her. 

She  had  come  upon  him  that  night  as  he  sat  with 
failure,  and  tried  grimly  to  outstare  it.  A  rebel  against 
things  that  are,  with  pity  in  his  heart  for  the  ones  who 
bear  the  heat  and  burden  of  life,  he  had  striven  to  lift 
them  to  things  as  they  should  be.  He  had  striven  hon- 

307 


THE   EVASION 

estly,  but  he  had  schemed  arrogantly,  and  executed 
without  wisdom,  without  fear,  and  scorning  expediency. 
So  he  had  failed,  and  sat  alone  this  night  with  his  for 
tune  destroyed  and  his  life  threatened  by  those  to  de 
fend  whom  he  had  risked  both. 

Dick  was  obstinate  in  his  point  of  view;  he  had 
found  it  difficult,  as  many  a  man  had  found  it  before 
him,  to  understand  how  convictions  as  simple  and  in 
evitable  as  his  own  could  fail  to  convince,  and  counted 
on  the  adherence  of  his  own  settlement  to  the  mental 
attitude  induced  in  him  by  developments  of  the  big 
strike. 

To-night  he  was  learning  his  lesson,  and  scorning  to 
evade  a  single  humiliating  detail,  but  the  wounds  of  it 
cut  to  the  bone  of  him.  He  was  hurt  in  the  pride  of 
his  intellect,  which  is  perhaps  the  deepest  hurt  a  man 
can  receive,  and,  unstrung  as  he  was  by  physical  and 
mental  suffering,  he  saw  his  life  stripped  and  stark  as 
a  riven  oak. 

Then  suddenly  came  the  woman  he  loved,  who  sat 
before  him  with  miserable  eyes. 

"  So  you  are  unhappy,  after  all,"  he  said.  "  If  I  had 
known  "  — 

"  We  must  go,"  she  said,  "  or  they  will  be  here  —  the 
men  you  have  sold  and  betrayed." 

He  did  not  stir.  "  You  believe  that  ?  "  he  asked 
gravely. 

"  The  past  explains  the  present,"  she  said,  and  her 
voice  shook  with  passion  and  misery. 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door,  rapidly  and  noisily. 
308 


AN  AWAKENING 

"  They  are  here !  They  have  come !  "  she  whispered, 
forgetting  everything  but  his  danger.  "  Do  not  speak. 
Go  into  the  back  room  quietly,  and  get  out  of  the  win 
dow  while  I  talk  with  them.  They  will  not  hurt  a 
woman.  I  am  not  afraid  —  I  will  "  — 

Dick  interrupted  sternly,  and  put  her  behind  him. 

"  Open  the  closet  on  your  left  and  lock  it  after  you," 
he  said,  speaking  rapidly,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
door,  at  which  an  insistent  rapping  continued.  "  You 
can  get  into  the  woods  that  way,  and  there 's  a  path  by 
the  edge  of  the  river  that  will  take  you  to  the  livery 
stable  I  spoke  of.  Do  you  understand  ?  Go  quickly." 

"  And  you  —  and  you  "  — 

"  Go  at  once,  or  I  can  neither  hide  nor  protect  you." 

"  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  Let  me  in,"  cried  a  voice  outside.  "  It  is  I  —  your 
friend,  de  Chavannes." 

"  Go,"  whispered  Dick  again,  without  turning  his 
head. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Gladys 
slipped  in  front  of  him  and  unlocked  the  door  herself. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come,"  she  said. 

De  Chavannes  stood  on  the  threshold,  and  blinked 
at  the  light. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come,"  she  repeated,  look 
ing  at  him  steadily.  "  I  lost  my  way  and  wandered 
here  by  chance,  fortunately  for  me,  as  Mr.  Copeland 
has  been  very  kind." 

Her  breath  failed,  and  her  hand  sought  her  throat, 
but  she  met  his  eyes  firmly. 

309 


THE   EVASION 

"  It  was  fortunate,  indeed,"  answered  the  Frenchman 
suavely.  "  I  will  never  f orgiv'  my  own  stupidness  in 
allowing  the  horse  to  run  with  me.  If  you  were  not 
just  descended  from  the  carriage  your  voice  might 
have  controlled  him.  You  are  pale,  madame,  and 
tired.  Can  you  f  orgiv'  ?  " 

"  Surely,  since  you  have  found  me.  How  did  you 
trace  me  here  ?  " 

"  Voila  !  "  He  held  up  a  shoe-buckle  of  rhinestones. 
"  It  was  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  in  the  moonlight,  and 
at  the  opening  of  the  path  was  a  bit  of  lace.  And  you, 
my  frien',''  —  he  approached  Dick,  and  put  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  — "  you  have  given  us  fright.  But  I 
am  tol'  that  the  dreadful  rumor  that  you  had  los'  your 
arm  is  untrue." 

"I  am  unpleasantly  conscious  of  the  possession  of 
my  arm,"  said  Dick. 

"  But  you  are  still  in  danger.  Will  you  not  come 
with  us?  The  carriage  wait',  and  I  am  sure  that 
madame  "  — 

He  hesitated  and  looked  at  Gladys,  who,  wan  and 
spent  with  emotion,  leaned  against  the  wall  as  if  for 
support. 

"  My  husband's  house  is  open  to  Mr.  Copeland,"  she 
said  slowly.  "  My  husband  will  be  glad  to  return  the 
protection  Mr.  Copeland  has  so  kindly  given  me." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Dick,  addressing  de 
Chavannes.  "But  I  am  all  right  here.  The  rumors 
have  been  exaggerated." 

"  But  you  are  alone  here,  my  frien',  and  you  suffer. 
310 


AN  AWAKENING 

I  see  it  in  your  face.  I  take  madame  now,  but  to 
morrow  I  come  back." 

"  Don't  bother  about  me,  de  Chavannes." 

"They  burn  your  mills  to-night." 

"  So  I  am  told." 

"  It  will  mean  great  money  loss  to  you? " 

"  You  had  better  go,  de  Chavannes.  It  is  not  safe 
for  Mrs.  Davenport  here." 

"  Madame,  are  you  ready  ?  Good-by,  Copeland,  a 
bientbt." 

In  the  carriage  that  de  Chavannes  brought  for  her, 
Gladys  leaned  back  with  closed  eyes,  and  they  drove 
home  almost  in  silence. 

"  Why  did  you  follow  me?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"  It  seem  to  me  that  madame  may  need  a  f  rien'  to 
night.  I  see  madame's  face,  white  and  reckless.  I  see 
her  go  down  into  the  woods  like  one  in  a  delirium. 
I  guess  where  she  go,  an'  I  say,  '  She  is  in  need  of  a 
frien'.  There  is  being  compromis',  there  is  also  being 
ruin'.  Madame  is  ruin'  if  any  one  but  de  Chavannes 
know  where  she  is  to-night.  With  de  Chavannes  it 
does  not  matter.'  I  go  to  your  stables,  where  I  fin' 
one  small  groom,  and  I  say  to  him :  '  Madame  desire 
to  go  to  see  the  mills  burn.  I  go  with  her.  Put  the  ol' 
horse  into  the  cart.  Madame  wait  for  me  on  the  avenue.' 
I  start.  The  horse  is  ol'  and  sleepy.  He  go  slow.  I 
am  not  sure  of  the  road  —  I  lose  it.  I  ask  a  question 
or  two.  At  las'  I  see  madame  like  a  spirit  in  the  moon 
light,  jus'  entering  the  wood.  I  shout  —  she  pay  no 
attention.  I  tie  the  horse  —  I  see  the  shoe-buckle.  I 

311 


THE   EVASION 

try  for  the  path  and  find  the  cabin  at  las'.  Then  I  wait. 
I  like  not  to  interrupt  "  —  He  hesitated.  "  I  know 
how  those  things  are,"  he  added.  "  What  Frenchman 
does  not  ?  And  life  is  so  full  of  interruptions !  Then  I 
hear  madame's  voice.  It  is  a  voice  of  anger,  and  I  know 
they  do  not  enjoy.  I  knock.  Did  I  do  right  ?  Did  I 
—  interrupt  ?  "  He  asked  the  question  anxiously. 

"  If  I  were  not  a  very  unhappy  woman,  I  should 
smile  at  your  question,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  madame  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  hard  to  explain." 

"  I  do  not  try  to  open  the  door,"  he  continued,  "  for 
madame  may  wish  to  escape.  If  so,  it  is  well.  If  she 
wait  to  receive  me,  that  also  is  well.  Her  first  words 
reassure  me.  I  see  her  point  —  I  play  the  game.  I 
play  him  well  —  Jiein  ?  "  Pie  turned  to  her  with  a  smile 
of  childlike  vanity.  "  It  is  a  good  game,  but  does  it 
deceive  him  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  My  friend  Copeland  he  stand  bleak  and  sombre, 
like  a  November  day.  It  was  necessary  to  bring  you 
back  to-night,  but  he  has  moch  onhappiness.  I  like  to 
think  that  he  onderstan'.  Chere  amie,  a  Frenchwoman 
would  not  try  so  hard  to  keep  him  from  happiness." 

She  did  not  speak  again  till  they  turned  into  the 
avenue. 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said,  but  thank  you," 
she  told  him.  "  I  cannot  even  try  to  deceive  you,  for 
my  shame  is  bare  under  your  eyes." 

"  I  know  of  no  shame,"  answered  the  Frenchman. 


CHAPTER  XX 

REALIZATION 


EM< 


[OTION  and  fatigue  so  prostrated  Gladys  that 
for  several  days  she  lay  white  as  the  linen  of  her  bed, 
and  beyond  the  reach  of  further  suffering.  Her  guests 
sent  messages  of  reproach  that  she  should  have  slipped 
away  to  view  the  great  fire  without  giving  any  of  them 
the  chance  to  join  her.  They  also  sent  condolences, 
advice,  and  the  hope  that  she  would  be  better ;  but 
receiving  no  answer  from  beyond  the  closed  door  of 
her  bedroom,  and  finding  themselves  limited  in  the 
amount  of  noise  they  could  make,  they  took  themselves 
away  at  last. 

On  that  day  Gladys  was  better,  and  allowed  her 
husband  to  see  her  for  the  first  time.  He  was  startled 
by  her  pallor,  and  moved  by  what  seemed  the  pathetic 
youth  of  her  face.  Her  arms  were  stretched  at  her 
side  with  hands  upturned  as  though  in  utter  abandon 
ment,  and  bending,  Arthur  kissed  her  palm. 

Without  moving  she  turned  her  eyes  to  him.  They 
were  listless,  unresponsive,  and  seemed  to  look  from 
far  away ;  but  they  were  not  unkind. 

"Are  you  feeling  better?"  he  asked,  speaking  less 
loud  than  usual,  and  taking  care  not  to  jar  the  bed  as 
he  drew  a  chair  beside  it.  His  wife  was  grateful  to  him, 

313 


THE   EVASION 

and  dimly  conscious  that  not  every  man  would  have 
been  capable  of  such  consideration. 

"  They  all  went  this  morning,"  he  continued. 

"  I  suppose  Diana  is  still  here." 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  that  ?  "  questioned  her  hus 
band  sharply.  She  considered  his  face  with  the  grave 
and  listless  eyes  of  a  tired  child. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said  at  last,  and  turned  her 
eyes  to  the  window. 

Arthur  was  alarmed,  and  he  began  to  wonder  if  there 
were  anything  unusual  the  matter  with  his  wife. 

"  Diana  went  with  the  others,"  he  explained. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  lonely,"  said  Gladys. 

"  Don't  mind  about  me.  But  I  wish  you  would  get 
well.  De  Chavannes  sent  you  word  of  his  engage 
ment?" 

"Yes." 

"  He  received  a  cable  yesterday  morning,  saying  *  the 
obstacle '  had  been  removed,  —  whether  it  was  mother 
or  father  or  husband  he  did  not  say ;  but  anyhow  he 
has  gone  out  to  marry  her.  He  says  that  you  knew 
about  it  all  the  time,  and  would  be  the  first  to  wish 
him  happiness.  I  was  surprised  —  and  glad  —  to  hear 
that,  for  I  had  been  rather  miserable  about  it.  Forgive 
me  for  doubting  even  enough  to  be  miserable,  won't 
you  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  she  said. 

"  A  man  ought  to  be  cowhided  for  thinking  anything 
wrong  about  you,"  he  said,  "  for  if  ever  '  there  's  a 
woman  like  a  dewdrop,'  you  are  the  one.  I  saw  that 

314 


KEALIZATION 

poem  this  morning  in  your  copy  of  Browning.  I  can't 
understand  the  fellow  as  a  rule,  but  I  understood  that 
all  right,  because  it  was  about  you." 

He  paused,  hoping  his  wife  would  speak  ;  but,  save 
that  she  now  looked  at  the  hand  he  had  kissed  instead 
of  at  the  window,  she  had  not  stirred,  and  he  became 
conscious  of  something  disquieting :  it  was  as  though 
a  deep  and  fateful  significance  brooded  beneath  her 
apathy.  But  understanding  nothing  he  continued  to 
inform  her  of  daily  happenings. 

"  De  Chavannes  went  down  to  Copeland  the  day 
after  the  fire,  and  found  him  seriously  ill.  We  —  I "  — 
he  moved  uncomfortably  —  "I  arranged  to  get  him  to 
the  Boston  City  Hospital.  I  had  to  do  it.  I  was  glad 
to,  for  I  could  n't  put  him  out  of  my  head.  It  seemed 
an  infernal  bungle  of  things  for  me  to  be  here,  and  for 
him  ,to  be  down  there,  and  —  well  —  I  could  n't  stand 
it,  that 's  all.  I  telephoned  Aldrich,  and  he  came  down 
with  a  nurse.  They  're  going  to  pull  him  through  all 
right.  You  don't  mind  my  having  done  it,  do  you  ?  " 

"It  was  kind  of  you.  It  was  like  you,"  she  said 
with  difficulty.  And  this  was  true,  for  when  it  came 
to  physical  suffering  Arthur  was  tender-hearted  as  a 
woman. 

"  It  stopped  me  from  feeling  like  all  kinds  of  a 
beast,"  he  murmured.  "I  —  going  to  the  hospital  may 
just  have  saved  his  life,  and  that  would  sort  of  even 
things  up." 

He  had  risen  and  moved  about  the  room  restlessly. 
"  It  would  sort  of  even  things  up,"  he  muttered  under 

315 


THE  EVASION 

his  breath,  while  fingering  the  things  on  his  wife's 
dressing-table.  Then  he  turned,  with  one  of  his  volatile 
changes  of  mood. 

"  They  told  me  not  to  stay  more  than  a  few  minutes, 
so  I  suppose  I  must  be  going.  But  I  say,  Gladys,  why 
won't  you  look  at  a  fellow  ?  " 

His  wife  obeyed  his  request,  and  Arthur  found  him 
self  staring  into  eyes  of  utter  woe. 

"  Something  is  troubling  you,"  he  said  in  dismay. 
"  What  is  it  ?  It  is  n't  the  damned  Frenchman  after 
all?" 

"No."  She  forced  herself  to  smile  under  solemn, 
unchanging  eyes. 

"  Then  "  —  Arthur  beamed  suddenly  and  radiantly 
—  "  is  it  Diana?  Do  you  mind  about  Diana?  " 

"  No,  I  want  you  to  have  your  friend." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  have  her.  I  am  glad  she  has 
gone.  You  don't  know  her."  His  face  grew  morose 
and  anxious.  "  I  am  afraid  of  her.  She  has  a  power 
—  but  if  I  thought  our  being  together  worried  you, 
why,  I  could  give  her  up.  It  would  be  as  easy  as  turn 
ing  over  a  hand." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  be  lonely." 

"  You  said  that  once  before.  One  would  think  you 
were  contemplating  running  away.  Be  honest,  Gladys.. 
Do  you  mind  my  seeing  so  much  of  Diana  ?  " 

"  No,  Arthur.  Truly,  truly  I  do  not,"  she  said,  with 
evident  earnestness,  and  as  though  assuring  him  of  a 
welcome  fact. 

"  You  don't  care  a  rush  for  me  !    You  never  did  !  " 
316 


KEALIZATION 

he  cried,  with  bitter  emphasis.  Once  or  twice  he  walked 
up  and  down  the  room,  and  paused  to  look  out  of  the 
window.  "  Kismet !  "  he  muttered  miserably,  "  Kis 
met!" 

It  was  the  piteous  moment  of  Arthur's  life,  but  his 
wife,  bewildered  by  her  own  pain,  did  not  understand. 
Without  speaking  to  her  again,  he  left  the  room  to 
answer  Diana  Hart's  telegram. 

The  next  day  Gladys  took  up  her  life  with  its  out 
ward  happenings  unchanged ;  but  neither  in  her  wak 
ing  hours  nor  in  her  dreams  did  she  forget  that  she 
loved  a  man  who  was  not  her  husband  and  whom  she 
despised.  Her  shame  for  the  last  was  the  greater  shame 
of  the  two. 

Mood  upon  mood,  each  one  merciless  and  resistless, 
swept  her  during  the  weeks  that  followed.  She  faced 
her  love  deliberately,  loathing  it  and  fearing  it,  but 
never  denying  its  magnitude,  or  seeing  in  it  other  than 
the  one  reality  of  her  existence.  There  were  times 
when  she  remembered  the  ideal  of  her  girlhood.  She 
had  told  herself  that  she  could  never  love  where  she 
could  not  worship  as  well,  that  her  hours  of  spiritual 
ecstasy,  of  deepest,  holiest  calm  would  belong  to  her 
love,  and  all  that  her  nature  could  give  of  beauty  and 
tenderness,  of  high  endeavor,  and  of  passion  pure  as 
flame ;  but  here  was  love  come  to  her  neither  bringing 
nor  accepting  any  good  thing,  yet  possessing  her  utterly, 
throwing  her  life  into  a  huge  disarray  of  violence, 
misery,  and  shame.  A  man  whom  she  could  not  honor 
was  king  of  her  nights  and  days. 

317 


THE   EVASION 

There  were  other  times  when  the  longing  for  sight 
and  sound  of  him  grew  to  a  consuming  pain.  She  knew 
that  he  was  ill  and  suffering,  and  nothing  but  the  tra 
dition  of  her  race  and  kind  held  her  from  his  side.  She 
thought  of  him  deserted  and  hated,  and  tenderness 
moved  her  intolerably,  so  that  she  felt  she  could  bear 
it  all  did  she  only  know  that  some  one  who  cared  was 
with  him.  Pride,  shame,  duty  —  she  could  conceive 
that  these  things  might  become  as  words  beside  the 
thought  of  his  bleak  and  unswept  room,  his  unmended 
coat,  his  desolate  eyes. 

There  were  moments  when  she  stood  dismayed  before 
her  own  capacity  for  suffering,  and  then  she  grew 
merciful  towards  women  who  had  been  tempted  and 
had  fallen. 

From  the  wreckage  of  her  life  and  ideals  she  sought 
a  refuge  in  the  religion  of  her  childhood,  flung  herself 
upon  it  as  a  man  dying  of  thirst  will  fling  himself  upon 
the  stream  where  he  has  once  slaked  it.  But  the  bed 
of  the  stream  was  empty  :  it  lay  scorched  and  arid 
under  her  parched  lips.  Gladys  had  lost  her  faith.  It 
was  one  of  the  things  that  Dick  had  taken  from  her. 
"  There  is  no  proof  !  "  she  cried,  "And  how  can  one  be 
lieve  without  proof  ?  One  must  live  as  bravely  as  one 
can,  but  there  is  no  help  —  no  help !  " 

During  these  days  the  local  papers  made  hysterical 
use  of  Dick's  name.  His  characterization  ran  the  gamut 
from  "  martyred  chief  "  to  traitor  and  demagogue.  He 
was  also  ridiculed  and  caricatured,  and  the  story  of  the 
game  of  poker  which  had  hitherto  been  a  rumor  con- 

318 


REALIZATION 

fined  among  a  handful  of  men,  became  public,  and  was 
immediately  and  effectively  used  by  his  enemies. 

Arthur  looked  on  and  saw  another  man  branded 
with  his  own  dishonor.  After  all  these  years  his  shame 
rose  to  stare  him  in  the  face  again,  and  he  told  himself 
that  it  was  too  late  to  do  anything.  The  sacrifice  would 
be  almost  futile  at  this  hour  even  had  he  possessed 
the  moral  fibre  to  make  it.  But  he  was  obliged  to 
disinter  the  self  that  he  knew  to  be  weak  and  cowardly, 
and  live  with  it  day  by  day.  It  was  a  presence  that  did 
not  make  good  company,  even  after  he  shifted  the  re 
sponsibility  of  it  onto  the  shoulders  of  his  Maker,  and 
reestablished  his  grievance  against  the  powers  who 
had  fashioned  him  as  he  was.  He  wondered  how  his 
wife  would  look  at  him  if  she  knew  the  truth,  and  his 
mind  shying  uncomfortably  from  the  thought,  sought 
increasing  distraction  with  Diana  Hart.  But  he  could 
not  forget  Dick,  whom  he  had  wronged,  and  whose  ruin 
lay  huge  and  complete  for  the  world  to  probe.  Neither 
by  night  nor  by  day  could  he  forget  him ;  for  Arthur 
was  kind,  and  had  the  universe  been  of  his  making, 
he  would  have  had  every  one  in  it  perfectly  happy  and 
perfectly  good. 

During  these  days  he  was  absent-minded,  restless, 
and  eager  to  fill  the  house  with  company,  a  wish  his 
wife  gratified  by  organizing  feverish  and  breathless 
gayeties. 

The  friends  of  Mrs.  Davenport  noticed  that  new 
forces  were  at  work  in  her.  Passion  of  some  kind 
seemed  to  burn  like  a  secret  flame  behind  her  fragile 

319 


THE   EVASION 

elegance.  There  were  times  when  the  need  for  swift 
motion  possessed  her,  and  urged  to  an  ecstasy  of  speed 
that  obliterated  all  fear  for  herself  and  others,  she 
drove  her  touring  car  at  a  pace  that  was  the  secret 
terror  of  her  guests. 

A  series  of  entertainments  filled  the  month  of  August. 
There  were  impromptu  theatricals  in  a  rustic  amphi 
theatre  hastily  dug  in  the  maple  grove ;  there  were 
fishing  parties  and  dinners  served  on  the  river.  Her 
guests  danced  on  the  lawn  through  hot  midnights,  and 
automobiled  till  dawn.  Twice,  while  personally  running 
her  car,  Gladys  and  a  party  of  friends  were  held  up 
and  fined  for  over-speeding,  and  paid  with  all  possible 
gayety.  Distraction,  excitement,  flattery,  vanity,  these 
were  the  flimsy  barriers  which  she  sought  to  erect 
between  herself  and  the  burning  and  sterile  misery  of 
her  life. 

As  the  days  went  on  her  transparent  delicacy,  which 
had  till  now  been  vital  with  health,  became  more  pro 
nounced.  Her  maid  bemoaned  the  emaciation  of  her 
arms  and  neck,  and  alarmed  by  the  growing  fragil 
ity  of  her  appearance,  Arthur  at  last  insisted  upon  a 
doctor. 

A  nerve  specialist  came  up  from  the  city,  and  his 
patient,  exquisitely  dressed  in  white  lace  and  a  wide 
black  hat,  received  him  on  the  terrace,  where  she  was 
spending  half  an  hour  between  a  luncheon  party  and 
the  arrival  of  some  friends  who  were  to  drive  out  from 
the  city. 

She  talked  wittily  and  charmingly  of  many  things, 
320 


REALIZATION 

and,  playing  with  an  August  lily  she  had  picked  from 
the  garden,  encouraged  him  to  tell  of  Dick's  progress 
toward  recovery.  Then,  with  laughing  protests,  she  an 
swered  some  of  his  questions  about  herself.  Before  he 
left  the  doctor  told  her  that  she  was  burning  her  life 
out,  whereat  she  smiled  brightly  and  said  that  it  might 
be  better  to  burn  out  than  rust  out. 

"  It  is  n't  a  question  of  playing  with  superficial 
metaphor,  nor  yet  of  life  or  death,"  answered  the 
great  man,  "  nor  yet  of  merely  losing  your  freshness ; 
but  of  losing  your  self-control,  of  devitalizing  your 
nervous  forces  so  that  you  will  say  things  you  do  not 
wish  to  say,  do  things  you  do  not  wish  to  do,  and 
betray  the  things  you  might  wish  to  hide.  A  woman 
buys  her  life  of  excitement  dearly  at  this  price." 

Gladys  drew  the  lily  slowly  through  her  hand,  and 
listened  attentively. 

"  That  is  true,"  she  said  at  last  without  looking  up ; 
and  then  she  encouraged  him  to  talk  of  himself,  and 
had  a  faint  triumph  when  her  personal  ascendency 
proved  sufficient  to  cause  the  man  of  science  to  forget 
the  hour  and  lose  his  train. 

When  the  doctor  next  interviewed  her  husband  he 
said  that  the  gayeties  must  be  stopped,  and  recom 
mended  a  change  of  air  and  scene,  preferably  to  the 
seashore.  To  himself  he  wondered  if  nervous  prostra 
tion  would  be  the  worst  of  it. 

Gladys  was  unexpectedly  friendly  to  Arthur's  sug 
gestion  that  they  have  no  more  guests,  but  was  visibly 
agitated  at  his  mention  of  a  month  at  the  seashore. 

321 


THE  EVASION 

"  I  cannot  go  to  the  sea !  "  she  cried.  "  You  must 
know  that  I  cannot  go  to  the  sea !  " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Arthur. 

She  controlled  herself  quickly,  realizing  that  she 
was  already  fulfilling  the  doctor's  prophecy. 

"  I  could  go  to  Aunt  Edith's,"  she  said,  after  a 
pause.  "  Uncle  Willie  has  asked  me  again  and  again." 

"  There  was  the  Harts'  yachting  cruise  planned  for 
next  month,"  he  said  uneasily,  "and  I  don't  know 
that  it  would  do  for  both  of  us  to  back  out  of  that." 

"  Of  course  not,"  assented  Gladys,  "  and  I  could  not 
bear  to  deprive  you  of  your  good  time." 

Conscious  of  secret  disloyalty,  Gladys  was  feverish 
in  her  anxiety  to  make  her  husband  happy. 

"  But  I  will  give  it  up  if  you  like,"  he  said,  fum 
bling  with  books  on  the  table. 

"No,  dear,  you  must  not  think  of  it."  Arthur  strolled 
aimlessly  from  the  room,  but  in  a  moment  he  came 
back  again. 

"I  am  glad  enough  to  go  with  you,"  he  reiterated, 
with  something  of  anxious  humility  veiled  by  sullen- 
ness  of  manner.  But  his  wife  assured  him  of  her  cheerful 
readiness  to  be  without  him,  and  he  did  not  mention 
the  subject  again. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    PLACE    OF    MEMORIES 


Gi 


"LADYS  had  grown  to  dread  the  sea,  for  she  knew 
that  it  would  speak  to  her  with  its  solemn  voice  of 
things  that  she  feared. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  coquettish  little  station 
where  Mrs.  Stanwood's  carriage  was  to  meet  her,  she 
found  herself  greeted  by  her  aunt  in  person,  whose 
conversation,  more  than  usually  gay  and  insouciante, 
claimed  her  superficial  attention  agreeably. 

"  I  'm  so  glad  you  came,  cherie,"  she  began,  as  the 
little  mare  started  through  the  village.  "You  were 
never  more  needed,  for  Sir  Gilbert  Essington  has  just 
come  down  for  the  week  end." 

"  And  who  is  Sir  Gilbert  Essington?  " 

"  The  Essington  who  was  colonial  secretary  for  so 
long.  He  is  traveling  for  his  health,  but  the  really  im 
portant  fact  about  him  is  that  he  has  come  to  America 
with  the  avowed  intention  of  disliking  American  wo 
men  and  ice  water." 

"  How  charming !  "  said  Gladys.  "  What  shall  we  do 
about  him,  Aunt  Edith  ?  " 

"  I  have  plans,"  said  Mrs.  Stanwood,  "  which  we  will 
discuss  later.  They  depend  somewhat  upon  you." 

"Upon  me?" 

323 


THE   EVASION 

"  Yes.   You  see,  he  is  not  our  only  visitor." 

"And  I  came  to  rest,"  said  Gladys,  with  a  droll 
smile.  "  How  pleased  the  doctor  would  be  !  " 

Mrs.  Stan  wood  observed  her  niece's  poignant  frailty 
with  some  dismay,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"  Who  is  the  other  ?  "  asked  Gladys  ;  "  and  has  he 
also  brought  a  valise  full  of  hostile  prejudices  ?  " 

"  His  coming  was  quite  unexpected.  It  was  a  sud 
den  whim  of  your  uncle's  to  have  him  here,  and  I  feared 
you  might  be  annoyed,  but  it  was  too  late  to  warn 
you." 

"Is  your  second  visitor  so  very  objectionable?" 
asked  Gladys  lightly. 

"  It  is  Richard  Copeland,"  said  her  aunt. 

Gladys  felt  suddenly  faint,  and  the  world  seemed  to 
slip  from  her  like  water  under  foot ;  but  almost  imme 
diately  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  came  to  her  aid. 
She  knew  that  she  must  sit  very  still,  and,  when  the 
faintness  had  passed,  speak  as  though  nothing  had 
happened. 

"I  know  that  you  disapprove  of  him,"  continued 
her  aunt  easily. 

"  But  one  disapproves  of  so  many  people  one  is 
obliged  to  meet."  Gladys  listened  to  her  own  voice 
with  an  odd  sense  of  detached  ownership,  and  almost 
wondered  what  it  would  say  next. 

"  Mr.  Copeland  used  to  be  a  very  agreeable  man," 
continued  the  voice,  with  apparent  ease.  "  He  is  prob 
ably  so  still." 

"  He  does  not  talk  much,"  said  Mrs.  Stanwood. 
324 


THE   PLACE   OF  MEMORIES 

"  Willie  seems  to  have  taken  a  great  fancy  to  him,  and 
insisted  on  having  him  down  here,  so  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  write  him  a  graceful  note  of  invitation  — 
which  I  did  all  the  more  gladly  as  the  season  is  over 
and  he  will  not  meet  the  people  he  used  to  know. 
His  being  here  also  has  the  effect  of  keeping  Willie 
occupied.  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  find  your  uncle 
very  much  changed."  . 

Through  a  universe  of  perilously  sliding  impressions 
Gladys  perceived  that  her  aunt  was  talking  to  save  her 
niece's  self-control. 

"  Has  he  been  ill  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Stanwood  explained  that  last  spring  her  hus 
band  had  suffered  from  what  was  probably  a  slight 
stroke,  and  since  then  he  had  not  recovered  his  normal 
health  and  spirits.  Gladys  listened  with  every  appear 
ance  of  sympathy,  and  was  able  to  make  the  right  re 
marks  at  the  right  moments  while  regaining  mastery 
over  herself. 

"  There  is  the  sea  you  used  to  be  so  fond  of,"  said 
her  aunt  suddenly.  "  What  do  you  think  of  it  now  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  it  at  all,"  she  answered,  "but 
wondering  if  Celeste  put  in  my  new  Doucet  gown.  I 
shall  need  it  if  I  am  to  deal  successfully  with  an  Eng 
lishman  coated  in  the  mail  of  insular  prejudice." 

She  spoke  composedly,  but  Mrs.  Stanwood,  looking 
at  the  white,  still  profile,  told  herself  that  this  was  a  bad 
case,  the  ending  of  which  it  was  impossible  to  foresee. 
She  talked  persistently  and  gayly,  while  Gladys  felt  the 
wind  of  the  sea  on  her  face  as  it  had  been  long  ago. 

325 


THE   EVASION 

How  was  she  to  meet  this  man  whom  she  loved  and 
despised  ?  How  was  she  to  speak  to  him  and  hear  his 
voice  ?  At  the  thought  of  his  nearness  she  turned  faint 
and  sick  again,  so  that  she  was  afraid,  and  wondered  if 
this  thing  were  to  prove  too  strong  for  her. 

In  the  meantime  her  aunt  continued  to  talk  of  her 
husband,  of  his  growing  depression  and  apathy,  and  of 
the  trial  he  had  become. 

And  poor  William  Stanwood  was  hard  to  deal  with 
in  these  days.  Walking  painfully  on  the  worn-out  edge 
of  his  life  he  developed  unsuspected  and  unpleasant 
qualities.  He  was  irritable,  and  evinced  an  unex 
plained  suspicion  of  the  wife  he  had  loved  so  long  and 
so  well.  He  had  also  lost  his  interest  in  beetles.  These 
were  unkind  thrusts  for  life  to  play  him  at  the  last,  for 
he  had  always  served  it  with  simplicity  and  honor;  and 
in  a  dim,  half-conscious  way  he  felt  them  to  be  so  as  he 
sat  hour  after  hour  in  the  "  Beetlery,"  handling  his 
rarest  specimens  with  indifference. 

His  desire  to  see  Richard  Copeland  had  been  a  sud 
den  one,  and  he  made  the  demand  before  his  wife's 
friends  and  in  a  way  which  made  it  impossible  for  her 
to  refuse.  But  Mrs.  Stanwood  was  seriously  annoyed 
that  Gladj^s  should  have  arrived  while  Dick  was  in  the 
house.  Her  niece  had  been  a  girl  of  vagrant  impulses  ; 
she  was  a  woman  possessed  of,  if  not  by,  strange  and 
indomitable  forces,  forces  which  might  lead  her  into 
lawless  action.  And  Dick  was  a  social  rebel,  as  well  as 
a  powerful,  determined  man. 

Neither  Richard  nor  Sir  Gilbert  was  at  home  when 
326 


THE  PLACE   OF  MEMORIES 

they  arrived,  and  Gladys  went  to  her  room  on  the  plea 
of  fatigue,  promising  to  be  downstairs  for  afternoon 
tea,  by  which  time  the  men  would  probably  have  re 
turned  from  their  walk. 

Mrs.  Stanwood  had  given  her  a  room  in  another 
part  of  the  house  from  the  one  she  had  occupied  as  a 
girl,  and  her  windows  opened  on  a  tactfully  cherished 
landscape  of  lawns  and  shrubs,  instead  of  on  the  sea. 

She  had  not  seen  her  aunt's  home  since  the  last  sum 
mer  of  her  actual  girlhood,  and  now,  lying  on  a  sofa  in 
the  lace  neglige  the  maid  had  substituted  for  her  travel 
ing  gown,  she  gave  herself  into  the  arms  of  a  tide  of 
memory. 

And  there  she  met  again  her  early  rapture.  Whole 
days  and  hours  of  that  radiant  summer  were  marshaled 
before  her,  vivid,  golden,  unforgettable.  She  met  again 
the  Dick  who  had  been  the  hero  of  her  girlhood,  and 
again  her  nature  vibrated  to  that  love  of  his  which  held 
so  much  of  worship  that  in  the  eager  ideality  of  youth 
she  had  felt  it  to  consecrate  her  life  to  higher  issues. 
There  had  even  been  solemn  hours  when  she  had  vowed 
never  to  prove  unworthy  of  him,  even  though  she  with 
held  her  love.  She  heard  again  the  words  he  had 
spoken,  and  smelled  the  sea  wind,  and  felt  it  on  her 
face  and  in  her  hair. 

For  a  time  the  memories  drugged  her  like  an  opiate. 
She  smiled  among  them  drowsily,  and  once  tears  of 
exquisite  pleasure  trembled  on  her  lashes,  and  once  she 
blushed. 

Suddenly  she  came  back  to  the  present,  and  could 
327 


THE   EVASION 

have  cried  aloud  with  pain,  not  because  of  her  ruined 
happiness,  nor  because  she  was  ashamed  of  her  love, 
but  because  Dick  was  unworthy.  She  felt  an  awful 
desolation,  unlike  any  she  had  yet  known.  It  was  a 
sadness  that  seemed  immemorial,  the  hoarded  sadness 
of  centuries,  the  voice  of  all  suffering  since  the  be 
ginning  of  the  world.  All  that  youth  had  promised 
her  of  happiness,  of  truth,  and  of  high  endeavor  had 
been  betrayed,  and  now  she  saw  clearly  into  her  life, 
and  knew  that  it  was  a  question  as  to  whether  or  not 
she  could  bring  her  nature  through  it  unspoiled.  Her 
love  was  a  degradation  of  the  spirit.  That  which  should 
have  been  highest  was  lowest,  and  the  values  of  life  lay 
in  huge  disarray. 

She  saw  herself  mastered  by  an  emotion  that  was  an 
outrage  to  herself,  and  was  degraded  in  her  own  eyes. 
Poison  was  in  her  spirit,  and  little  by  little  she  knew 
herself  to  be  undergoing  a  slow  deterioration. 

A  dog  barking  on  the  lawn  and  the  sound  of  carriage 
wheels  on  the  avenue  recalled  her  to  immediate  action. 
Here  was  an  afternoon,  a  Sunday,  and  probably  another 
forenoon  to  be  lived  in  the  house  with  Kichard  Cope- 
land  among  the  surroundings  of  their  early  friendship. 
And  the  first  necessity  was  to  ring  for  her  maid  and 
prepare  to  meet  him  at  afternoon  tea. 

In  bringing  her  face  to  face  with  Dick  under  this 
particular  roof,  fate  tortured  her  with  an  ingenuity  that 
stung  to  defiance,  and  she  dressed  in  a  mood  of  growing 
pride  and  determination  not  to  be  conquered. 

"  Oherie!  But  how  white  you  look!  I  should  never 
328 


THE   PLACE   OF   MEMORIES 

think  you  had  been  resting!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Stan  wood, 
when  her  niece  entered  the  drawing-room. 

"  Resting  is  so  fatiguing,"  answered  Gladys,  seating 
herself  deliberately  with  her  face  to  the  light. 

In  contrast  to  the  pallor  of  her  skin  her  hair  was 
more  than  usually  vivid  and  luminous,  and  symbolized 
the  winged,  indomitable  vitality  of  her  nature.  The  sky- 
like  blue  of  her  eyes  was  lit  with  a  passionate  excitement, 
which  Mrs.  Stanwood  understood,  and  regarded  with 
uneasiness. 

While  waiting  for  him,  Gladys  elicited  certain  infor 
mation  from  her  aunt  concerning  Dick. 

"  Is  he  perfectly  well  again  ?  " 

"  Not  strong  enough  to  be  included  in  a  social  pro 
gramme,  but  as  the  man  himself  has  made  that  impos 
sible,  I  cannot,  personally,  regret  his  invalidism." 

It  appeared  that  the  early  reports  of  his  financial 
ruin  were  correct,  as  well  as  those  concerning  the  bitter 
ness  with  which  he  was  regarded  by  both  capital  and 
labor.  His  failure  as  a  man  and  reformer  was  complete 
and  unqualified,  and  now  that  the  story  of  his  early  dis 
honor  was  made  public  —  Mrs.  Stanwood  shrugged  her 
shoulders  slightly.  Willie  had  never  done  anything  so 
inconsiderate  as  asking  him  to  the  house.  Fortunately 
Sir  Gilbert  was  a  stranger  and  had  heard  nothing  of 
the  rumors.  He  appeared  to  like  Dick,  and  to  expand 
in  his  presence.  There  had  been  some  awkward  mo 
ments  when  Mr.  Murray,  the  man  who  had  been  mainly 
responsible  for  Dick's  expulsion  from  the  club,  came  to 
call,  and  one  or  two  others  had  met  him  in  company 

329 


THE   EVASION 

with  Sir  Gilbert,  on  which  occasions  the  frigidity  of  wel 
come  had  been  sufficiently  palpable  to  make  it  necessary 
for  Mrs.  Stanwood  to  offer  some  vague  explanation. 

"  I  really  had  to  defend  myself  against  the  imputa 
tion  of  asking  him  to  meet  undesirable  people  at  my 
house,"  she  explained,  "  for  he  will  be  sure  to  hear  every 
thing  after  he  leaves.  Of  course,  I  went  into  no  details, 
and  simply  said  that  Mr.  Copeland  was  a  much-talked- 
of  man  just  now,  and  that  there  were  unpleasant  stories 
about  him  which  some  people,  among  others  my  hus 
band,  had  always  refused  to  believe.  It  was  impossible 
to  know  what  Sir  Gilbert  thought  of  my  information, 
for  he  pulled  his  mustache  and  said  nothing.  But  he  is 
walking  with  Mr.  Copeland  now,"  she  added.  "  Dick 
has  a  power  —  a  dangerous  power." 

"  What  is  he  going  to  do  next  ?  How  is  he  going  to 
live  if  he  has  lost  all  his  money  ?  "  asked  Gladys. 

"  You  must  ask  Sir  Gilbert.  He  could  tell  you  better 
than  I.  I  believe  he  has  some  idea  of  entering  politics, 
but  public  knowledge  that  he  has  cheated  at  cards  will 
make  that  difficult,  for  it  justifies  every  other  dishon 
orable  interpretation  of  his  career.  As  for  the  money, 
I  believe  he  has  a  few  hundred  a  year  left." 

"  So  he  has  deserted  the  cause  ?  "  asked  Gladys. 

Mrs.  Stanwood  shrugged  her  shoulders  again.  "  Is  it 
surprising  from  any  point  of  view  ?  "  she  asked  lightly. 
It  was  a  source  of  regret  to  her  that  Dick's  ruin  was 
of  such  heroic  proportions,  for  its  very  magnitude 
might  become  a  source  of  danger  to  the  generous  tem 
perament  of  her  niece. 

330 


THE   PLACE   OF  MEMORIES 

But  Gladys  was  not  thinking  definitely  of  his  fail 
ure,  nor  of  whether  he  were  good  or  bad,  nor  yet  of 
the  shame  of  loving  him.  She  was  conscious  only  of 
the  fact  that  she  was  about  to  stand  in  his  presence 
and  to  see  and  hear  him  again.  Waiting  thirstily  for 
the  sound  of  his  voice  she  heard  it  at  last  in  company 
with  that  of  the  Englishman,  and  then  Sir  Gilbert  en 
tered  the  room  alone. 

He  was  a  large-boned,  immaculately  groomed  man, 
with  an  imposing  force  of  masculine  personality,  and 
possessed  nothing  of  the  stolidity  which  American  jo- 
coseness  is  fond  of  attributing  to  the  typical  Brit 
isher. 

Gladys  was  conscious  of  greeting  him  with  a  buoyant 
gayety  for  which  Dick's  imminence  was  responsible, 
and  the  Englishman  responded  readily  to  her  delicate 
impertinence. 

"  You  are  such  a  disappointment  to  me ! "  she  said, 
looking  up  at  him  while  helping  herself  from  the  sugar 
bowl  he  held. 

"  This  is  terrible,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Give  me  time, 
Mrs.  Davenport,  give  me  time  !  It  is  only  five  o'clock 
now ;  possibly  by  six  "  — 

But  she  shook  her  head.    "  No,  it  is  hopeless." 

"  But  I  might  change,"  he  pleaded.  "  Is  it  because 
I  am  English  that  you  think  I  cannot  change  ?  " 

"  It  is  your  sense  of  humor,"  she  explained. 

"  Does  it  displease  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  looking  all  my  life  for  the  humorless 
Englishman,  the  classic  of  funny  papers,  and  I  have 

331 


THE   EVASION 

never  met  him.  When  I  heard  you  were  here  I  was 
hoping  to  find  myself  rewarded  for  my  search." 

In  the  meantime  Dick  did  not  arrive ;  but  she  felt 
that  he  could  not  delay  much  longer. 

"  Why  do  you  not  like  ice-water  or  American  wo 
men?  "  she  inquired,  turning  a  luminous  expectant  face 
to  the  Englishman,  who  received  an  odd  impression  of 
forces  at  work  within  her  which  were  far  removed  from 
tea-table  chatter.  "  We  are  willing  that  you  should  be 
gradually  educated  to  an  appreciation  of  ice-water,"  she 
continued,  "but  why  do  you  disdain  the  charm  of 
American  women  ?  " 

"  It  can  only  be  because,  like  some  modern  literary 
essayists,  I  disdain  the  obvious,"  answered  Sir  Gilbert. 

"  I  should  warn  you  that  we  have  plans  for  your  im 
mediate  conquest." 

He  bowed.  "I  am  just  realizing  the  transcendent 
qualities  of  a  courage  that  enables  me  to  face  such  an 
tagonists." 

And  still  Dick  did  not  come.  Gladys  realized  that 
the  afternoon  was  to  be  passed  without  him,  and  felt 
suddenly  tired.  She  stayed  only  long  enough  to  prove 
that  she  was  still  sufficient  mistress  of  herself  to  com 
mand  her  voice,  and  then  gave  an  excuse  for  leaving 
the  room. 

In  the  twilight  of  her  own  apartment  she  made  no 
attempt  to  deny  her  disappointment,  and  emotion  was 
beginning  to  have  its  way  with  her. 

That  evening  there  was  to  be  a  formal  dinner  for 
Sir  Gilbert,  and  she  dressed  for  it  with  elaborate  care, 

332 


THE   PLACE  OF  MEMORIES 

no  longer  seeking  to  disguise  the  fact  that  she  was  dress 
ing  for  Dick.  She  chose  a  gown  of  pale  blue,  embroid 
ered  in  a  deeper  shade  with  slender  iris,  and  there 
were  sapphires  in  her  hair,  and  a  necklace  of  the  same 
stones  on  her  neck. 

"You  are  a  vision,  cherie,  and  would  satisfy  the 
demands  of  the  most  fastidious  taste,"  commented  her 
aunt.  "  Go  down,  and  I  will  join  you  directly." 

Descending  the  wide  stairway  Gladys  was  irresist 
ibly  reminded  of  a  June  morning  many  years  ago 
when  she  had  gone  down  into  this  same  hall  to  meet 
Dick.  The  thought  that  he  was  unworthy  had  dis 
appeared  beyond  the  remotest  region  of  her  conscious 
ness.  It  was  enough  that  she  was  to  meet  him  in 
another  moment,  or  two,  or  three  — 

Her  face  was  white  with  expectancy,  and  the  usually 
transparent  blue  of  her  eyes  was  deep  as  the  sapphires 
at  her  throat.  To  Sir  Gilbert,  who  watched  her  from 
the  library  door,  she  was  poignantly  frail,  and  lovely 
with  a  transparent  loveliness  through  which  it  seemed 
that  one  could  look  to  the  vibrations  of  her  innermost 
being. 

Gladys  did  not  notice  the  Englishman,  but  before 
reaching  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  she  saw  Dick,  and 
paused.  He  was  evidently  waiting  for  her  to  pass  be 
fore  going  up  himself,  and  their  eyes  met  for  an  in 
stant  in  silence,  while  her  heart  seemed  to  stand  still, 
and  her  lips  parted  slightly  in  an  effort  to  breathe. 

Stern,  rugged,  uncompromising,  he  waited,  and  it 
was  evident  from  the  power  and  gravity  of  his  face  that 

333 


THE   EVASION 

failure  had  not  broken  him.  He  still  carried  his  arm 
in  a  sling,  and  he  was  roughly  dressed. 

Before  the  pause  became  dangerous  she  was  able 
to  summon  well-trained  commonplaces  of  speech  to  her 
aid. 

"We  are  all  glad  to  know  of  your  recovery,"  she 
said. 

"  Thank  you." 

"  But  your  arm  troubles  you  still,  I  see." 

Dick  answered  nothing,  while  he  held  her  with  a 
deep  and  unwavering  glance. 

"  Will  you  not  be  late  for  dinner  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  dinner  "  — 

"  You  are  not "  — 

"  I  shall  dine  with  Mr.  Stanwood  in  the  library." 

"  Ah  —  you  will  dine  well,  no  doubt,  and  possibly  be 
as  well  amused  as  we." 

She  smiled,  knowing  that  her  lips  trembled  like  a 
child's,  and  went  past  him  with  her  head  high.  The 
dinner  to  which  she  had  looked  forward  with  buoyant 
pulses  was  noise  and  emptiness.  She  saw  the  guests 
as  from  a  great  distance,  and  it  seemed  as  though  their 
laughing  faces  were  masks,  and  that  their  mirth  was 
stale  and  bitter  to  them,  as  to  her.  Disappointment  lay 
upon  her  like  a  dead  hand  because  Dick  was  not  there, 
and  again  she  asked  herself  if  this  thing  would  not 
prove  too  strong  for  her. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE    ORDEAL    OF    GLADYS 


Ai 


.FTER  an  almost  sleepless  night  Gladys  rose  the 
next  morning  to  the  feeling  that  life  was  crushing 
her,  —  pressing  her  so  close  against  the  wall  that  she 
could  hardly  breathe. 

She  was  taken  possession  of,  against  her  will,  by  a 
devastating  emotion ;  and  what  was  humanity  worth 
that  a  woman  could  become  so  poor  a  creature  ?  Dick 
did  not  suspect  her  love,  but  if  she  betrayed  it  by  a 
vagrant  tone  or  look  she  knew  that  she  would  be  in  his 
power. 

Social  amenities  were  the  immediate  considerations, 
and  she  found  herself  unexpectedly  competent  to  pre 
serve  them.  In  the  morning  hostess  and  guests  sat  on 
the  piazza,  for,  owing  to  the  lateness  of  the  season,  the 
church  was  closed.  Dick  was  near  her.  Was  it  malice 
that  caused  him  to  sit  on  the  steps  and  smoke  as  on 
the  day  when  she  first  met  him  ?  Roses  and  fragrance 
had  gone  from  the  garden  beyond,  but  asters  and 
dahlias  flaunted  their  colors  with  a  crude  and  violent 
effect  that  bruised  her  strained  nerves  intolerably. 
Beyond  the  garden  the  sea,  riotously  brilliant,  raced 
up  the  shore  line  in  an  eager,  glittering,  obliterating 

335 


THE   EVASION 

flood,  an  orgy  of  wanton  power  that  called  her  to  ele 
mental  forces  and  the  man  she  loved. 

But  Gladys  inquired  politely  after  his  health.  Dick 
answered  in  kind,  and,  after  casually  placing  a  few 
more  conversational  straws  in  the  face  of  the  flood, 
they  lapsed  into  temporary  silence.  The  conversation  be 
came  general  and  desultory ;  it  concerned  the  weather, 
prospects  of  next  year's  dramatic  season,  and  the  best- 
selling  novel.  Gladys  might  think  Dick  a  bad  man, 
but  it  was  inevitable  that  she  should  know  when  his 
mind  leaped  with  hers  to  subtleties  of  phrase  and  mean 
ing  that  were  lost  to  the  others,  and  now  and  then  he 
would  look  at  her  with  an  enigmatic  smile  on  his  lips, 
send  her  a  brilliant  challenge  of  an  adjective  or  an 
idea,  and  for  giddy  moments  she  would  forget  all  else 
in  a  luxury  of  mental  enjoyment.  She  knew  that  like 
herself  he  was  moved  by  the  sound  of  the  racing  tide, 
and  that  like  herself  he  was  thinking  of  the  days  they 
had  lived  together  in  this  same  spot. 

During  the  morning  his  old  adorer,  Phil  Whiteside, 
at  whose  house  Gladys  had  met  him  years  ago,  joined 
the  party  with  his  sister  Mary  ;  and  it  was  evident  that 
neither  time  nor  adversity  had  altered  Whiteside's 
affection . 

After  sitting  by  Dick's  side  on  the  step  and  convers 
ing  with  him  in  low  and  confidential  tones,  he  endeav 
ored,  with  the  cooperation  of  Sir  Gilbert,  to  make  him 
talk  of  the  labor  questions,  to  explain  the  causes  of  his 
failure  and  his  attitude  toward  them.  It  appeared  that 
his  attitude  had  changed  considerably.  He  had  learned 

336 


THE   ORDEAL  OF  GLADYS 

by  failure.  Ruin  had  forged  his  metal  free  from  the 
crudities  and  unwisdoms,  and  some  of  the  arrogance 
of  his  youth.  New  plans,  new  ideas  were  pressing  upon 
the  old  ones,  rounding  them  up,  trampling  them  down, 
slaughtering  them  ruthlessly  till  his  mental  vision  was 
a  battle-ground.  These  conquering  legions  he  now  mar 
shaled  with  a  certain  fury,  for  Dick,  brought  again 
into  contact  with  the  woman  he  loved,  was  fighting  his 
fight  over  again,  and  seeing  no  light  through  it  a  certain 
rage  grew  within  him.  What  was  man  that  he  should 
be  tied  to  the  rack  against  his  will  as  though  he  were 
a  beast  of  the  field  ?  He  willfully  emphasized  the  bru 
talities  of  his  idea,  knowing  all  the  while  that  he  was 
adding  to  the  misunderstanding  and  contempt  of  the 
woman  he  loved. 

"  Let  there  be  no  more  charities,  organized  or  un 
organized,"  he  said ;  "  no  more  giving  for  nothing,  no 
more  public  soup  kitchens,  no  more  meals,  or  fuel,  or 
lodgings,  for  those  who  cannot  pay." 

"  You  mean  that  it  encourages  vagabondism  ?  "  inter 
rupted  Mr.  Whiteside. 

"I  mean  that,  and  a  great  deal  more.  It  is  those 
who  are  too  weak  to  resist  indulgence  of  their  ten 
der-heartedness  who  help  to  keep  poverty  and  squalor 
alive.  The  millions  of  dollars  that  go  to  charities 
simply  draw  rags  of  decency  over  the  disease  that  is 
the  shame  of  civilization.  They  hide  the  effect  from 
fastidious  hearts  that  the  cause  may  not  be  considered. 
They  assuage  a  temporary  ill  that  the  everlasting  wrong 
may  remain  invisible." 

337 


THE   EVASION 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  the  people  would  die  in  the 
streets." 

"Then  they  must  die;  and  let  their  bodies  be  taken 
up  and  laid  on  the  high  places  that  all  the  world  may 
see,  and  make  its  cry  of  horror  and  outrage  heard 
among  lawmakers,  for  it  is  there,  in  the  laws  of  our 
barbarous  civilization,  that  is  the  source  of  our  evil. 
Socialists  in  France  and  Germany  are  finding  it  out, 
and  securing  seats  in  the  government  for  themselves, 
where  little  by  little  they  may  pass  laws  which  will 
end  by  doing  away  with  the  cause  of  a  wrong  which 
our  charitable  millions  only  alleviate  while  they  en 
courage." 

"  Would  you  really  let  people  go  hungry  and  cold  ?  " 
asked  Mary,  scarcely  more  than  breathing  her  wonder 
and  pain. 

"  While  civilization  endures,  some  have  got  to  suffer 
for  a  little  while  that  many  be  satisfied,"  answered 
Dick. 

Phil  Whiteside  fidgeted,  while  looking  at  his  idol 
with  glowing  eyes. 

"  It 's  all  right,  old  man,  and  I  am  with  you,"  he 
declared.  "  But  for  your  own  sake  I  can't  help  wishing 
you  saw  it  from  another  angle.  It  gives  your  enemies 
such  a  ripping  chance  against  you.  They  can  claim  that 
you  saw  the  inexpediency  of  charities  as  soon  as  it  be 
came  inconvenient  for  you  to  donate  them,  and  that  you 
are  satisfying  a  personal  grudge  against  the  fellows  who 
have  ruined  you.  And  don't  you  think  you  might  state 
it  all  with  a  little  less  brutality  ?  You  talk  as  though 

338 


THE   ORDEAL  OF  GLADYS 

you  were  no  end  of  a  vandal.  Two  of  your  present 
audience  are  petrified  with  horror.  Look  at  Mary  and 
Mrs.  Davenport.  You  are  surprising  and  shocking  them 
both  beyond  measure." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  Mrs.  Davenport  is  surprised," 
said  Dick  deliberately. 

She  drew  in  a  sharp  breath  that  seemed  to  stab  her. 
"  I  am  in  no  way  surprised,"  she  said. 

"And  just  as  if  we  didn't  all  know  that  you  are  a 
most  preposterously  tender-hearted  person,  who  can't 
even  stand  having  a  dog  out  in  the  cold,  much  less  a 
man,"  continued  Phil. 

But  Gladys  did  not  hear,  for  she  had  fled  imme 
diately  after  her  last  remark.  She  went  off  to  the 
cliffs  and  crept  miserably  into  a  hollow  among  the 
rocks,  feeling  that  Dick  had  given  another  stab  to 
the  wound  that  was  killing  her. 

She  could  have  embraced  his  conception  —  grim  and 
tragic  as  it  was  —  with  passionate  renunciation,  but  for 
the  almost  fatal  reflection  it  cast  on  his  sincerity.  It 
was  easy  to  believe  this  evil  of  him  when  she  had  ac 
cepted  all  the  rest. 

Conversation  on  the  piazza  continued  from  the  point 
where  she  had  left  it. 

"  Then  you  propose  to  go  into  politics  yourself  and 
become  a  lawmaker,"  said  Phil.  "But  politics  don't 
pay,  and  how  the  dickens  are  you  going  to  find  the 
wherewithal  to  live?  " 

"  A  man  can  live  and  be  comfortable  on  seven  dol 
lars  a  week,"  answered  Dick.  "I  know,  for  I  have 

339 


THE   EVASION 

done  it.  And  I  can  make  more  than  that  by  scrib 
bling.  The  publishers  have  been  after  me  for  years 
for  an  account  of  experiences  in  laboring  districts,  and 
I  am  hated  enough  to  be  read." 

That  afternoon  he  walked  alone  by  the  sea.  Insur 
gent  forces  began  to  clamor  within  him.  For  years  he 
had  allowed  a  lie  to  stand  between  him  and  Gladys. 
For  years  he  had  stood  aside  leaving  his  own  unclaimed. 
The  birds  of  the  air  were  wiser ! 

She  was  not  merely  the  passion  of  his  heart  and 
senses,  but  of  his  soul,  and  he  knew  that  if  he  chose  to 
seek  her  love  it  would  be  his.  That  it  was  his  already 
he  did  not  suspect. 

He  had  permitted  a  hideous  and  grotesque  misunder 
standing  to  separate  them,  and  had  not  the  silence  out 
raged  his  nature  and  hers? 

As  the  day  withdrew  into  twilight  Gladys  was  pos 
sessed  by  the  thought  that  Dick  was  leaving  in  the 
morning,  and  that  she  would  in  all  probability  never 
see  him  again,  for  he  had  accepted  the  editorship  of  a 
paper  in  a  Western  town. 

"  How  do  we  suffer  so  and  live  ?  "  she  asked  herself. 

That  evening  there  was  another  dinner,  and  again  she 
put  on  her  blue  satin  and  sapphires.  But  this  time 
there  was  no  anticipation  in  the  act,  for  she  knew  that 
Dick  was  to  dine  in  the  library  with  the  master  of  the 
house.  She  was  so  tired  that  the  very  jewels  on  her 
neck  were  too  heavy,  and  against  a  background  of 
fatigue  on  which  her  nerves  lay  exposed  and  defense 
less,  the  thought  of  Dick's  departure  struck  with  piti- 

340 


THE   ORDEAL  OF  GLADYS 

less  effect.    Her  spirit  held  no  refuge  where  she  might 
escape  it,  and  the  rest  of  the  world  was  dark. 

She  was  dimly  aware  that  before  dinner  Sir  Gilbert 
stood  before  her  in  an  attitude  that  kept  the  other 
guests  at  a  distance.  He  said  little,  but  looked  at  her 
in  a  way  that  made  her  wonder  if  he  suspected  her 
trouble,  and  was  trying  to  help  her.  His  presence  — 
big,  awkward,  but  determined  —  comforted  her  so  that 
she  was  willing  he  should  think  what  he  pleased,  pro 
vided  he  did  not  go  away  or  make  conversational 
demands  upon  her. 

He  was  very  kind,  in  the  way  that  Dick  might  have 
been  kind  if  he  had  been  the  man  she  had  first  known. 
During  the  day  the  two  Dicks  had  become  confused  in 
her  mind,  for  when  with  him  it  was  hard  to  feel  that 
his  nature  was  other  than  spacious  and  fine. 

"  Will  you  please  sit  by  me  ?  "  she  asked  Sir  Gilbert, 
as  they  moved  toward  the  dining-room  in  the  informal 
groups  that  Sunday  evening  entertainments  permit. 

The  Englishman  acquiesced  readily,  for  he  had  al 
ready  asked  his  hostess  for  the  favor  of  this  arrange 
ment. 

"  You  are  tired,  so  you  must  n't  try  to  entertain  me 
or  any  of  that  rot,"  he  said,  as  he  seated  himself  by 
Gladys,  and  during  the  dinner  she  continued  to  find 
refuge  in  his  friendly  presence.  Her  misery  had  car 
ried  her  beyond  the  point  where  it  seemed  possible  or 
important  to  make  social  effort. 

"If  I  were  not  so  tired  I  could  do  better,"  she 
thought.  "The  doctor  was  right  in  saying  that  if  I 

341 


THE   EVASION 

did  not  rest  I  should  do  and  say  things  against  my 
wishes  and  betray  what  I  wished  to  hide." 

The  man  on  her  right  felt  that  he  had  never  been  so 
disappointed  in  his  life  as  in  this,  his  first  meeting  with 
Mrs.  Davenport.  The  rest  of  the  table  thought  she 
looked  shockingly  ill. 

Under  her  vivid  hair  and  the  gleam  of  sapphires,  her 
face  was  wan  as  that  of  a  spirit ;  but  her  eyes,  more 
deeply  blue  than  usual,  shone  with  perilous  excite 
ment. 

Before  the  end  of  dinner  she  had  determined  that  in 
some  way  she  must  see  and  speak  to  Dick  before  he 
left,  and  after  the  decision  a  fragile  pink  flushed  her 
cheeks  and  she  talked  with  reckless  and  brilliant 
gayety. 

The  meal  was  over  at  last,  and  then  the  period  of 
waiting  for  the  men  to  finish  their  cigars,  and  finally 
the  last  guest  had  gone ;  but  there  seemed  no  way  of 
seeing  Dick. 

Mrs.  Stanwood  pleaded  a  headache  and  went  to  bed. 
Sir  Gilbert  lingered  about  with  the  air  of  having  some 
thing  to  say.  The  brilliantly  lighted  drawing-room  and 
hall  were  empty  and  silent,  save  for  a  murmur  of  Mr. 
Stanwood's  voice  which  came  from  the  half -open  door 
of  the  library,  and  was  interrupted  now  and  then  by  a 
deep-toned  monosyllable  from  Dick.  Mr.  Stanwood 
had  never  been  a  talkative  man  ;  but  since  his  recent 
illness  he  would  often  break  long  periods  of  silence  by 
an  aimless  garrulity  which  changed  to  fretfulness  if 
it  was  not  sympathetically  received. 

342 


THE   ORDEAL  OF  GLADYS 

In  order  to  avoid  entering  the  library,  Gladys  threw 
a  cloak  over  her  and  stepped  into  the  garden,  from 
which  she  watched  the  onward  rush  and  glitter  of 
waves,  alternately  black  and  glittering  under  the  moon. 
The  moon  herself  swung  regal  and  golden  over  the 
dark  waters,  and  seemed  to  call  Gladys  to  a  lawless 
and  passionate  life.  She  knew  that  she  was  fighting  for 
the  integrity  of  her  existence,  and  that  by  her  actions 
on  this  night  the  metal  of  her  spirit  was  to  be  tested. 

Sir  Gilbert  met  her  at  the  hall  door  when  she  re 
turned,  and  as  the  light  streamed  outward  she  thought 
of  the  night  years  ago  when  her  aunt  called  her  from 
this  same  garden  to  hear  of  Dick's  dishonor. 

"  Is  n't  Fate  ingenious  ?  "  she  asked  the  Englishman 
as  he  closed  the  door  behind  her.  "  She  throws  an 
amount  of  intellectual  subtlety  into  her  cruelty  that 
rouses  even  a  victim  to  admiration.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  say  that  her  cruelty  is  so  ingenious  as  to  be 
feminine." 

But  Sir  Gilbert  was  not  occupied  with  barren  specu 
lation  concerning  the  attributes  of  Fate. 

"The  important  thing  is  to  bring  one's  self  out  of 
the  fight  uncorrupted,"  he  said  stolidly. 

She  hesitated  on  her  way  to  the  library,  while  the 
words  arrested  her  wildly  streaming  thoughts. 

"  You  are  tired,"  he  continued,  in  the  same  tone. 
"  It 's  time  for  you  to  go  upstairs." 

She  hesitated  still,  and  then  Mr.  Stanwood  called 
her  from  the  library. 

She  found  him  sunk  in  his  armchair,  with  his  head 
343 


THE  EVASION 

dropped  low  on  his  chest,  and,  in  spite  of  the  other  fig 
ure  who  stood  in  a  shadow  beyond  the  lamp,  she  was 
able  to  notice  how  ill  and  changed  he  was. 

"  I  have  been  hoping  you  would  come  in  to  bid  us 
good-night,"  he  said,  holding  her  hand  with  the  feeble 
insistence  of  the  sick  and  the  very  old.  "  How  lovely 
you  are,  my  dear  !  How  lovely  you  are  !  "  And  then 
he  looked  from  her  to  Dick  and  back  again  with  an 
expression  of  unmistakable  entreaty.  "  I  think  that 
Richard  wanted  you  to  come  in,  too,  though  he  did  not 
say  so.  Eh,  Richard  ?  "  He  peered  under  the  lamp  at 
Dick. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  before  Dick  answered 
easily,  "  Of  course  I  did." 

Gladys  realized  that  he  would  not  take  advantage  of 
her  uncle's  failing  powers,  and  was  dangerously  thank 
ful  for  this  evidence  that  he  was  not  wholly  unworthy. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  must  know  how  her  feet  longed  to 
move  towards  him,  —  how  her  hands  longed  to  touch 
him.  The  need  was  upon  her  to  speak  to  him,  and  for 
this  one  moment  of  her  life  she  did  not  resist. 

"I  have  been  out,"  she  said,  looking  at  Dick,  while 
Mr.  Stanwood  detained  her  hand.  "  There  is  a  won 
derful  moon  to-night,  —  a  golden,  full-rimmed,  regal, 
triumphant  moon.  You  should  see  it." 

"  I  have,"  answered  Dick. 

She  knew  that  he  understood.  But  when  did  he  not 
understand  her,  to  the  lift  and  fall  of  her  every  mood? 
At  that  moment  she  felt  for  him  the  passion  of  intel 
lectual  sympathy,  which  is  quicker  to  kindle  and  longer 

344 


THE  ORDEAL  OF  GLADYS 

to  endure  than  the  passion  of  the  heart  or  the  senses, 
and  she  longed  to  speak  to  him  again. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  out  and  look  at  the  moon 
together  ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Stan  wood,  with  evident 
eagerness. 

"  Are  you  anxious  to  be  rid  of  us  ?  "  asked  his  niece 
lightly,  though  she  was  startled  by  his  desire  to  throw 
her  into  Dick's  companionship.  It  seemed  the  clearest 
proof  he  had  given  of  a  failing  mind. 

"It  is  very  cold  in  the  moonlight,"  she  added,  "and 
you  must  feel  that  my  hand  is  like  ice  already." 

"  Yes,  it  is  cold,  it  is  cold,"  he  murmured  uncom 
fortably.  "  It  is  not  natural  to  have  such  cold  hands 
when  one  is  young."  And  then  he  seemed  unable  to 
hold  the  subject  longer. 

"  I  am  tired,"  he  said  ;  "  I  will  go  to  bed."  He  rose 
heavily  and  with  difficulty.  "  Dick,  my  boy,  will  you 
see  that  the  windows  are  locked,  and  the  front  door?  I 
do  not  like  to  trust  these  things  to  a  servant,  and  I  am 
not  equal  to  doing  it  myself  to-night.  You  think  that 
I  have  grown  into  an  old  man,  don't  you,  my  dear,  — 
into  an  old  man  ?  "  he  added,  turning  to  his  niece. 

"  No,  indeed,  Uncle  Will.  I  think  you  are  a  young 
thing  yet,"  she  answered,  kissing  him. 

He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  I  am  an  old  man,"  he  repeated.  "  All  my  life  I 
have  lived  in  what  they  call  a  fool's  paradise,  and  that 
kept  me  young.  When  I  woke  up  and  found  myself 
only  on  the  earth  I  grew  old  all  at  once.  But  no  one 
can  take  away  the  years  I  lived  in  paradise,  and  it 's 

345 


THE   EVASION 

better  to  live  in  a  fool's  paradise  than  —  than  a  fool's 
hell."  He  paused,  bewildered  by  such  a  bold  and  unac 
customed  flight  into  metaphor.  "  I  mean  that  if  we  are 
going  to  believe  something  that  is  n't  so,  the  ones  who 
believe  the  thing  that  makes  them  unhappy  are  the 
foolish  ones,"  he  explained  more  humbly.  "  I  wish 
that  you  and  Richard  would  remember  this,"  he  added ; 
and  turned  to  go,  leaning  on  Dick's  arm  as  he  walked. 
At  the  door  he  paused  again  to  address  his  niece. 

"  This  boy  has  been  very  good  to  me  —  very  good  to 
me,"  he  said. 

After  helping  Mr.  Stanwood  upstairs  Dick  came  down 
again  to  lock  the  house,  and  Gladys  knew  that  he  and 
she  were  alone  in  the  still,  bright  rooms. 

She  sat  in  her  uncle's  armchair,  listening,  while  he 
made  a  tour  of  the  parlors  and  tried  and  locked  doors 
and  windows.  She  heard  him  distinctly  through  the 
silence,  and  every  sound  of  his  seemed  to  beat  against 
the  doors  of  her  soul. 

In  a  little  while  she  knew  that  he  would  return  to 
the  library  to  fasten  the  windows  there,  and  after  that 
he  would  go  —  unless  she  betrayed  her  secret. 

In  her  desperate  longing  to  cling  to  these  last  mo 
ments  there  was  no  room  for  her  to  think  that  she 
could  save  herself  by  going  before  he  returned.  So  she 
continued  to  sit  in  the  big  armchair,  waiting  for  him. 
But  when  she  heard  him  coming  through  the  hall  and 
back  into  the  library  the  terrible  excitement  that 
seemed  to  be  burning  her  life  away  left  her  suddenly, 
and  in  the  consciousness  of  his  presence,  and  of  their 

346 


THE  ORDEAL  OF  GLADYS 

isolation  in  the  house,  she  felt  an  infinite  comfort  and 
peace.  Everything  was  well  so  long  as  he  was  there. 
She  longed  to  beg  him  to  stay  with  her,  and  to  tell  him 
all  —  to  sob  out  the  story  of  her  love,  and  her  agony 
over  his  unworthiness.  Prompted  by  some  blind  in 
stinct,  she  felt  that  he  could  remove  her  burden. 

In  the  strangeness  of  the  time  and  silence,  myste 
rious  agents  of  psychical  laws  which  have  their  home 
beyond  the  realms  of  conscious  being  were  working 
between  Gladys  and  Dick,  and  if  she  had  looked  at 
him,  or  he  had  spoken,  the  truth  would  have  come  to 
her  then,  for  she  felt  his  love  and  his  tenderness  and 
his  strength  like  presences  in  the  room. 

But  he  did  not  speak,  and  she  heard  him  behind  her 
locking  one  window  and  then  another.  There  were 
only  three. 

It  was  while  Dick  was  at  the  second  window  that  she 
remembered  Sir  Gilbert's  words,  "  The  only  thing  that 
matters  is  to  pull  one's  self  out  of  the  fight  uncorrupted." 
And  she  knew  that  if  she  could  keep  silent  for  the  next 
few  moments  she  would  be  safe  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 

At  the  third  window  there  was  the  fall  of  a  heavy 
window  sash,  which  brought  her,  trembling,  to  her 
feet. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried. 

"  The  window-cord  is  broken,"  he  explained.  "  It  is 
lucky  the  glass  did  n't  smash  when  it  fell.  I  shall  have 
to  ask  your  help,  Mrs.  Davenport,  for  it  will  need  two 
arms  to  fasten  it  now,  and  only  one  of  mine  is  available. 
Will  you  kindly  lock  it  while  I  hold  the  sash  up  in 

347 


THE  EVASION 

place  ?  "  His  tone  was  one  of  dry  command,  and  she 
went  over  to  him  slowly  across  the  polished  floor,  her 
heart  and  her  spirit  crying  out  to  him  till  it  seemed  as 
though  he  must  hear. 

When  she  reached  his  side  the  lock  was  found  to  be 
too  high  for  her  to  reach,  and  in  silence  he  moved  up 
a  chair  for  her  to  stand  on,  and  helped  her  to  climb 
upon  it.  ' 

"It  is  ridiculous  to  be  so  small,"  she  said  tremu 
lously.  In  rendering  him  this  service,  in  sharing  with 
him  this  simple  act  of  everyday  life,  she  was  perilously 
happy. 

Once  she  looked  at  him,  and  on  his  strong  profile 
she  read  a  certain  savageness  of  restrained  impulse. 

"  He  is  unhappy,"  she  cried  within  herself.  "  Oh,  I 
cannot  bear  to  have  him  unhappy !  "  Her  will  swayed 
giddily,  as  though  in  the  power  of  an  anaesthetic.  But 
she  only  locked  the  window  and  stepped  down  from  the 
chair,  for  she  was  going  to  save  herself  if  possible  this 
night. 

Seated  again  in  the  armchair  under  the  lamp,  she 
spoke  to  Dick  over  her  shoulder. 

"  When  you  go  out,  will  you  kindly  close  the  door?" 
she  said. 

"  I  am  not  going  yet,"  he  answered,  and  moved  about 
the  room,  trying  the  doors  that  led  to  the  piazza. 
Then  she  knew  that  he  looked  at  her,  and  she  sat 
quite  still  in  the  chair.  "  If  he  speaks  I  must  not  an 
swer,"  she  thought,  "  and,  above  all,  I  must  not  meet 
his  eyes.  Oh,  God  help  me  —  help  me  !  " 

348 


THE   ORDEAL  OF  GLADYS 

It  seemed  to  her  that  under  the  lamp-light  her  secret 
must  lie  pitilessly  exposed,  and  that  Dick  must  be  look 
ing  upon  it.  But  he  was  not,  for  had  he  done  so  no 
earthly  circumstance  would  have  prevented  him  from 
claiming  his  love.  He  had  no  false  pride  about  her 
misunderstanding  of  him.  He  knew  that  it  could  be 
destroyed  with  a  word  or  look,  and  had  he  known  that 
she  loved  him  he  would  have  destroyed  it  like  any 
other  grotesque  and  fantastic  thing,  for  his  manhood, 
hardy,  willful,  and  conquering,  was  greedy  from  long 
starvation. 

Presently  he  went  away  without  a  word,  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him  as  she  had  bid  him  do.  She  heard 
him  walk  through  the  hall  and  upstairs.  After  that 
the  house  was  silent. 

For  a  few  moments  she  continued  to  sit  motionless, 
and  then,  without  any  warning,  the  floods  broke  loose 
within  her.  With  a  cry  she  ran  to  the  door  that  had 
closed  upon  him,  and  cast  herself  against  it,  and  beat 
upon  it  with  her  hands  while  she  called  his  name.  She 
had  let  him  go,  and  saved  herself,  but  what  did  it  mat 
ter  that  she  was  saved  ?  What  was  there  of  her  to  save 
that  did  not  belong  to  him  ?  She  cried  out  that  she  had 
been  a  fool,  —  a  fool,  —  and  sank  upon  the  ground, 
writhing  and  crouching  there,  sobbing  harshly  and 
wildly,  with  her  forehead  on  the  floor,  and  hands 
clasped  behind  her  neck. 

What  did  it  matter  whether  he  was  good  or  bad?  or 
that  to  love  him  was  right  or  wrong  ?  These  things  were 
words  beside  the  terror  and  anguish  of  knowing  that 

349 


THE   EVASION 

her  eyes  would  not  see  him  nor  her  ears  hear  him 
again.  She  dared  not  look  into  the  yearning  emptiness 
of  her  life. 

If  he  were  to  come  back  now  and  ask  her  love  she 
knew  that  she  would  give  it,  for  the  moment  had  come 
which  she  had  foreseen  dimly  all  her  life,  —  the  mo 
ment  in  which  she  was  no  longer  mistress  in  the 
chambers  of  her  own  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
ARTHUR'S  RETURN 


A 


WEEK  later  Arthur  returned  from  the  yachting 
trip  to  find  his  wife  in  the  garden  of  his  own  home.  She 
wore  a  wide  shade  hat  and  heavy  gloves  as  though 
ready  for  work ;  but  sat  on  a  bench  idly,  with  some  tools 
on  the  ground  beside  her.  She  did  not  rise  to  receive 
her  husband,  and  in  the  eyes  lifted  to  his  he  found  no 
welcome.  There  were  dark  marks  like  bruises  under 
the  eyes,  and  her  face  had  grown  thinner. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  find  you  here,"  he  said,  with 
moroseness  and  suspicion  in  his  voice.  "  And  you  don't 
look  as  though  the  rest  had  done  you  good." 

"  I  came  back  —  I  could  not  stand  the  sea,"  she 
said,  speaking  like  one  in  physical  pain.  "  Did  you  en 
joy  your  trip  ?  " 

He  laughed  shortly. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  and  sitting  beside  her  on  the  bench 
he  began  to  dig  holes  in  the  ground  with  the  point  of 
his  cane. 

Gladys  realized  that  he  was  changed  as  though  by  a 
moral  and  physical  deterioration,  which  found  expres 
sion  in  the  unambitious  slouch  of  his  shoulders,  the 
puffy  skin  under  dull  eyes,  and  the  unwholesome  color 
of  his  increased  flesh. 

351 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  want  to  say  something,"  he  began,  with  sudden 
resolution ;  "  if  it 's  not  true  you  can  blackguard  me 
all  you  like,  —  but  it 's  true." 

Gladys  waited  in  silence,  some  prescience  warning 
her  of  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

"  You  love  Dick  Copeland." 

Her  answer  was  little  more  than  a  breath. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

It  was  over  at  last,  and  he  sat  staring  at  the  point  of 
his  cane  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

For  the  space  of  a  minute  neither  of  them  spoke, 
and  then  Arthur  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped 
his  forehead,  after  which  his  hands  dropped  limply  be 
tween  his  knees. 

"  God !  "  he  breathed. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  One  night  in  my  sleep  I  saw  your  face  as  it  had 
looked  the  night  of  his  accident.  When  I  awaked  I  saw 
the  face  still,  and  then  I  thought  about  it,  and  won 
dered.  After  a  while  I  did  n't  have  to  think  any  more. 
How  long  have  you  cared  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  staring  past  his  stricken 
face.  Their  questions  and  answers  were  spoken  in 
lifeless  monotones.  "  It  seems  as  though  part  of  me 
must  have  always  cared ;  but  I  was  a  child  that  first 
summer,  —  I  was  n't  ready.  Then  came  that  dreadful 
time,  the  time  when  I  found  he  had  cheated ;  I  think 
something  died  in  me  then,  —  and  afterwards  I  tried  to 
forget.  There  was  so  much  excitement  and  change  in 
the  years  that  followed  that  I  thought  I  had  forgotten, 

352 


ARTHUR'S  RETURN 

until  I  saw  him  again ;  and  then  I  knew  that  he  held 
power  over  me  that  no  other  person  or  thing  possessed. 
When  he  came  near  I  felt  deep  and  terrible  powers  at 
work  in  me.  But  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  love,  or  I 
would  never  have  done  you  the  wrong  to  marry  you. 
I  did  n't  know  that  it  was  love  till  the  night  we  heard 
of  his  accident." 

For  the  first  time  she  looked  at  him,  and  saw  the 
frightened  misery  of  his  face. 

"  There  is  one  more  thing  I  think  you  ought  to 
know,"  she  said. .  "  That  night  —  I  went  to  him !  " 

"  You  went "  — 

"  Yes  —  to  his  cabin  —  alone.  He  was  not  as  ill  as 
we  were  told,  and  he  thought  I  had  been  lost.  I  was  ex 
hausted,  and  he  gave  me  wine  to  drink  and  would  have 
taken  me  home,  but  Monsieur  de  Chavannes  came  and 
found  me." 

"  You  were  alone  with  him  "  — 

"  As  I  might  have  been  with  a  stranger ;  he  never 
knew  why  I  came.  There  is  perhaps  no  reason  for 
your  believing  me." 

"  Perhaps  not  —  I  do  believe  you." 

"  What  can  I  say  ?  "  she  continued.  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  no  woman  ever  suffered  so  deep  a  humiliation  as  I. 
But  let  me  try  —  let  me  try  to  make  it  up  to  you."  Her 
voice  broke,  and  with  a  passionate  gesture  she  stretched 
her  hands  toward  him.  "  Everything  that  my  brain 
can  contrive,  that  my  hands  can  do  for  your  happiness, 
is  yours  till  I  die.  I  will  work  for  you,  think  for  you, 
live  for  you  "  — 

353 


THE   EVASION 

Arthur  shook  her  hands  off  and  rose  to  pace  the 
lawn,  while  she  watched  him,  helpless  and  dumb.  At 
last  he  paused  to  speak,  and  she  wondered  to  find 
neither  anger  nor  contempt  in  his  face. 

"  Between  us  we  have  made  rather  a  botch  of  things, 
have  n't  we?  "  he  said.  In  his  voice  and  expression  there 
was  a  hopeless  acquiescence  in  fate.  "  But  I  wish  you 
could  remember  one  thing  of  me,  —  I  have  loved  you 
well." 

"  Arthur  —  Arthur  "  —  she  was  sobbing  frankly  now. 

He  listened  to  her  with  his  eyes  turned  to  the  wooded 
horizon,  while  an  expression  both  bitter  and  cynical 
usurped  the  momentary  softness  of  his  face. 

"There  must  be,  after  all,  a  fate  that  shapes  our 
ends,"  he  murmured,  "  and  it  should  be  confessed  that 
there  is  a  certain  poetic  justice  in  mine.  Please  don't 
cry  any  more,"  he  said  aloud ;  "  it  worries  me,  and 
there  is  no  occasion  for  it.  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  you  are  perfectly  free." 

She  looked  at  him  without  understanding. 

"You  are  perfectly  free,"  he  continued,  with  some 
impatience  at  her  expression.  "  I  won't  stand  between 
you  in  any  way.  It  is  quite  simple." 

"Are  you  mad  !  " 

"  Mad ! "  He  laughed  drearily.  "  I  wish  I  were. 
We  can  have  a  divorce  on  any  grounds  you  like,  or 
make  any  other  arrangement  you  choose.  Do  you  un 
derstand  ?  I  won't  stand  in  the  way." 

She  looked  at  him  without  any  change  in  the  haggard 
despair  of  her  face. 

364 


ARTHUR'S   RETURN 

"I  may  have  deserved  the  insult, but  I  did  not  expect 
you  to  give  it,"  she  said. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  any  insult,"  Arthur  continued,  un 
moved.  "  Do  you  mean  that  of  your  own  free  will  you 
would  continue  to  put  it  through  with  me  ?  I  did  n't 
know  you  had  such  a  prejudice  against  riding  across 
lots,  and  as  for  divorce,  —  it 's  done  every  day." 

"  Even  if  it  were  possible  for  me  to  consider  that,  you 
forget  —  you  forget  what  he  is,"  she  said,  in  a  stifled 
voice. 

"Who?  Copeland?  I  forget  what  Copeland  is  ?  Ah, 
I  did  forget,  —  so  I  did.  You  are  thinking  of  that  game 
years  ago  when  he  —  But  we  were  all  boys  then. 
Would  you  really  hold  a  thing  like  that  up  against  a 
fellow  all  his  life  ?  Would  you  ?  Think  how  long  life 
is ;  and  if  he  were  sorry  and  never  did  anything  of  the 
sort  again  —  would  you  really  keep  on  thinking  him  a 

—  cad,  and  all  that  ?   You  women  who  sit  at  home  and 
are  cared  for  don't  know  what  want  and  temptation  are. 
What  right  have  you  to  judge  ?   How  do  you  know  how 
much  he  —  the  man  who  cheated  —  may  have  wanted 
the  money  ?  " 

"  He  could  scarcely  have  wanted  money,"  she  mur 
mured.  "  And  it  is  n't  only  that.  His  whole  career 

—  everything  that  he  has  done  —    But  I  cannot  talk 
about  it." 

"  You  would  n't  have  believed  the  other  things,  — 
the  stories  of  the  way  he  squandered  all  his  money,  and 
the  factory  girl,  and  the  talk  about  destroying  the  labor 
ing  man's  religion,  turning  him  against  his  employer 

355 


THE   EVASION 

and  then  deserting  him,  —  you  wouldn't  have  believed 
all  this  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  game  of  poker. 
Copeland  's  as  right  as  any  of  us,"  continued  Arthur, 
"  except  that  he  is  a  fool.  I  think  him  the  damnedest 
fool  alive,  and  you  had  better  tell  him  I  say  so." 

"  I  shall  not  see  him  again." 

But  Arthur  moved  away  from  her,  and  appeared  not 
to  hear. 

"  So  it 's  all  up,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  '  The  wick  is 
spent,  the  cord  is  cut,'  as  the  old  song  goes.  I  can't 
fight  this.  But  it 's  not  her  fault,  and  I  am  not  sure 
that  it 's  mine.  I  was  made  of  poor  stuff  at  the  start,  — 
perhaps  it 's  Dick's ;  the  game  was  his  and  he  would  n't 
play.  Yes,  I  think  the  whole  infernal  mess  is  Dick's 
fault,  —  and  there 's  something  of  humor  in  that." 

Gladys  wondered  vaguely  why  her  husband  stood 
muttering  to  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  terrace  ;  but 
she  did  not  care.  When  he  came  back  he  said  that  he 
must  be  going,  but,  making  no  movement  to  do  so, 
stood  before  her,  apparently  engrossed  in  digging  holes 
in  the  turf  with  his  cane. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Arthur." 

"  I  am  listening,"  he  said,  without  lifting  his  head. 

"  So  long  as  you  will  have  me  I  will  stay  with 
you,  and  make  you  as  happy  as  1  may.  Do  you  under 
stand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand  all  right.  You  mean  to  put 
it  through,"  he  said  absently.  Dislodging  a  pebble  with 
the  point  of  his  cane,  he  jerked  it  over  the  terrace  and 
lifted  his  head  to  watch  it  fall. 

356 


ARTHUR'S   EETURN 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going,"  he  said  again,  and  turned 
to  leave  her  without  a  word  of  farewell.  Before  disap 
pearing  he  paused  irresolutely. 

"The  time  may  come  when  you  will  think  that  I 
never  cared,"  he  said.  "  But  it  won 't  be  true."  After 
that  he  disappeared  into  the  house,  and  her  world  had 
changed  before  she  saw  him  again. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

DIANA 

.RTHUR  spent  that  evening  with  Diana  Hart. 
Her  boudoir,  with  windows  open  to  the  moonlight,  was 
yet  brilliantly  lighted  from  within ;  and  dressed  in 
orange-colored  gauze  so  shimmering  as  to  be  almost 
iridescent,  she  moved  about  the  room  collecting  pho 
tographs  and  knicknacks. 

"  For  we  must  have  something  to  make  our  sitting- 
room  pretty,"  she  explained,  selecting  two  cushions  from 
the  sumptuously  colored  masses  of  them  on  her  divan. 
"  I  always  make  a  point  of  taking  cushions  and  knick 
nacks  when  I  travel."  Outwardly  she  was  cool,  com 
petent,  confident ;  but  beneath  these  things  one  divined 
her  passion  and  audacity. 

To  Arthur,  who  sat  drinking  whiskey  and  soda,  she 
seemed  like  some  splendid  panther.  He  was  half  afraid 
of  her,  for  it  began  to  appear  as  though  she  was  to 
have  her  way  with  him.  Then  she  paused  by  his  side 
to  remove  the  whiskey. 

"  You  have  had  enough,"  she  said.  "  We  do  not 
need  stimulants,  you  and  I ;  our  actual  living  is  going 
to  be  sufficiently  audacious." 

"  You  are  splendid  and  beautiful,"  he  said ;  "  but 
I  believe  that  you  are  cruel  as  well." 

358 


DIANA 

Diana  Hart  laughed  low  as  she  stood  behind  him. 

"  You  will  grow  tired  of  me  as  you  have  of  others, 
and  drop  me  as  easily  as  you  would  a  worn-out  glove," 
he  said. 

"  But  to-day  I  love  you." 

Arthur  did  not  stir.  The  whiskey  had  created  a  mis 
erable,  confused  excitement  in  his  brain.  He  thought 
of  his  wife,  of  how  well  he  had  loved  her,  and  how  ill 
he  had  been  repaid.  He  thought  of  Dick  and  hated  him, 
and  then,  strangely  enough,  he  thought  of  the  company 
of  strong  and  loyal  spirits  through  which  the  poet  has 
said  that  God,  bending,  shows  a  little  of  his  light ;  and 
he  saw  himself  among  the  paltry  and  worthless. 

Diana  Hart  stood  behind  him,  knowing  well  that  she 
had  never  possessed  him,  but  not  doubting  her  power 
to  do  so  ultimately. 

"  Is  the  automobile  ready  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  will  be  here  in  half  an  hour  from  the  time  I 
give  the  order." 

"  Let  us  start  at  ten  ;  that  will  bring  us  to  our  first 
stopping-place  at  about  one  o'clock  to-night.  And  the 
next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  there  will  be 
freedom  for  us,  —  the  freedom  of  prairie  and  desert, 
of  strange  ocean  and  strange  hemisphere."  She  spoke 
with  palpitating  undertones  in  her  voice  ;  and  then,  with 
an  abrupt  change  of  tone,  she  wondered  what  Gladys 
would  say. 

Arthur  had  wondered  also  :  once  or  twice  he  had 
thought  she  would  be  glad,  but  of  this  he  said  nothing. 

"  Will  she  divorce  you  at  once  ?  " 
359 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  suppose  so.   And  then  you  must  marry  me." 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that."  Mrs.  Hart  laughed  again. 
"  Lhave  had  enough  of  marriage,  and  I  am  not  afraid 
of  the  frowns  of  that  little  portion  of  the  world  we  call 
*  fashion.' " 

"You  are  a  splendid  creature,"  said  Arthur.  But 
still  he  thought  wretchedly  of  his  wife. 

Then  he  rose,  and  Diana  stood  behind  him  no  longer. 
She  was  very  tall,  so  tall  that  he  could  have  kissed  her 
without  stooping ;  and  suddenly  something  obliterating 
took  possession  of  him,  so  that  for  a  while  he  thought 
of  his  wife  no  longer. 

"  It  is  time  that  you  loved  a  woman  who  can  love 
you  in  return,"  said  Diana,  with  his  arms  about  her  ; 
and  again :  "  She  could  never  have  loved  you  as  I  do. 
Say  that  you  believe  me." 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  And  you  will  take  me  away  to-night  ?  " 

"I  am  ready." 

"  And  you  will  love  me,  —  hush !  do  not  answer. 
Soon  you  will  tell  me  without  asking.  Come  for  me  at 
ten.  I  shall  be  waiting." 

"  I  shall  be  here." 

But  suddenly  she  wrenched  herself  from  him,  and 
cried  out  passionately  that  he  did  not  love  her,  —  that 
he  was  unworthy  of  the  tide  of  life  that  she  could 
bring  him,  and  she  told  him  to  go  back  to  the  pale 
woman  with  the  red  hair. 

But  at  the  thought  of  losing  her  utterly  Arthur  saw 
his  life  grow  stale  and  cold.  He  had  lost  his  wife,  and 

360 


DIANA 

he  did  not  dare  to  let  Diana  go.  Panic  took  him  as  it 
appeared  that  she  might  mean  what  she  said,  and  for 
a  few  moments  even  she  was  satisfied  with  his  protes 
tations. 

But  when  he  left  her  she  watched  him  down  the 
avenue,  doubtful  of  his  return,  though  his  eager  pro 
mises  were  warm  on  her  lips. 

The  breath  of  the  night  was  cool  on  Arthur's  face, 
the  vault  above  was  spacious  and  serene,  and  very  soon 
passion  went  from  him  as  flame  from  a  wick.  He 
walked  slowly  down  to  the  inn  where  he  was  staying, 
and  wondered  why  he  had  consented  to  go  away  with 
Diana.  But  he  was  not  yet  gone.  The  thought  gave 
him  comfort. 

He  went  to  his  room  and  put  some  things  into  a 
dress-suit  case,  telling  himself  it  might  as  well  be  done 
and  that  it  would  be  quite  easy  to  take  them  out  again 
if  anything  happened  to  prevent  their  start.  His  trunk 
had  already  been  expressed  to  their  first  stopping-place, 
but  it  would  be  easy  to  send  for  a  trunk. 

When  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done  he  sat 
down  and  wrote  to  Gladys,  which  brought  her  vividly 
before  him.  The  small,  pale  face  with  its  tender  lips 
and  pure  eyes  and  the  halo  of  gleaming  hair  came  be 
tween  him  and  his  paper,  as  it  had  often  drifted  between 
him  and  Diana's  kisses ;  and  he  cursed  himself  for  a 
poor,  unmanly  fellow  that  could  not  stop  himself  from 
bestowing  his  love  where  it  was  not  wanted.  Diana  he 
had  never  loved;  but  there  were  times  when  she  was 
an  obsession  with  him. 

361 


THE   EVASION 

In  as  few  words  as  possible  he  wrote  Gladys  what 
he  had  decided  to  do,  and  while  he  did  so  he  thought 
of  her  sweetness  till  difficult  tears  stood  in  his  eyes, 
and  he  longed  to  put  his  head  on  her  knees  and  tell 
her  about  it  and  be  comforted,  as  he  had  told  her  other 
things  and  been  comforted  during  the  first  year  of  his 
married  life.  Of  the  long  injustice  he  had  done  to 
Dick  Arthur  wrote  nothing,  preferring  that  the  man 
should  tell  his  own  truth.  The  letter  he  decided  to 
post  after  they  started,  for  something  might  happen 
before  then.  Diana  might  change  her  mind  and  never 
send  him  the  signal  of  the  raised  window  shade  that 
was  to  advise  him  of  her  readiness.  He  looked  at  his 
watch,  and  found  that  it  was  nine  o'clock.  There  was 
an  hour  more,  and  many  things  could  happen  in  an 
hour. 

The  room  was  warm  and  close,  so  he  rang  for  a  boy 
and  ordered  him  to  take  the  dress-suit  case  down  to  the 
gate  and  leave  it  there,  after  which  he  strolled  leisurely 
through  the  house  which  smelled  strongly  of  kerosene, 
and  paused  to  speak  to  some  sweet-faced  old  ladies  who 
asked  him  to  take  a  hand  at  bridge  with  them,  the 
stakes  being  green  peas.  Between  the  evil  hours  he  had 
spent  with  Diana  Hart  Arthur  had  often  played  cards 
for  green  peas  with  the  old  ladies,  who  severally  and 
ardently  adored  him.  Arthur  was  usually  beloved  by 
the  very  old  and  the  very  young,  having  for  them  that 
easy  and  charming  kindness  which  is  often  found  in 
men  of  his  type.  He  refused  to  play  this  evening  and 
passed  on,  smiling  under  his  yellow  mustache  at  the 

362 


DIANA 

thought  of  what  they  would  think  did  they  know  that 
he,  a  married  man,  was  about  to  run  away  with  another 
woman.  The  smile  turned  acid  on  his  lips. 

Arthur  did  not  want  to  be  a  bad  man ;  viciousness 
held  no  attractions  for  him,  but  temptations  overcame 
him,  and  he  submitted  too  easily  to  the  secret  conscious 
ness  that,  though  the  world  might  think  otherwise,  he 
was  a  cad  and  a  worthless  fellow.  Often  this  conscious 
ness  gave  him  cynical  amusement.  Sometimes,  too 
rarely  for  the  good  of  his  soul,  it  was  wormwood  to  him, 
as  it  was  to-night. 

In  the  garden  he  sat  on  his  dress-suit  case  and  lit  a 
cigar.  He  sat  where  he  could  see  the  light  from  Mrs. 
Hart's  house.  Now  he  recognized  fully  the  fact  that 
he  no  longer  wished  to  go  away  with  her,  that  he  hoped 
the  curtained  lights  of  the  east  chamber  would  not 
be  unveiled,  and  that  he  was  not  sure  that  he  would  go 
if  they  were.  In  the  code  of  many  of  his  world  he  was 
bound  to  go :  he  was  in  honor  bound  to  dishonor,  and 
he  felt  a  satisfaction  in  the  cheapness  of  his  moral  fibre 
as  proven  years  ago,  —  it  seemed  to  loose  him  from  ob 
ligation. 

Resolutely  and  deliberately  he  forced  himself  to 
think  of  Diana,  but  his  pulses  remained  unstirred,  and 
a  cold  sweat  of  discomfort  and  dismay  broke  out  upon 
him.  He  felt  that  he  had  never  been  in  a  worse  plight 
than  now,  when  about  to  sacrifice  all  to  a  woman  who 
left  him  cold  when  she  was  out  of  sight.  But  then  he 
asked  himself  what  he  was  sacrificing,  for  he  had  lost 
everything.  And  he  knew  that  though  the  thought  of 

363 


THE   EVASION 

Diana  left  him  cold  and  reluctant  at  the  moment,  it 
would  still  be  possible  for  him  to  live  some  swinging, 
triumphant  hours  at  her  side. 

As  the  village  clock  struck  the  half-hour,  Arthur's 
chauffeur  came  for  orders  and  was  told  to  be  at  the 
gate  by  ten  o'clock.  But  even  then  he  had  not  decided 
to  go.  The  arrival  of  the  car  need  bind  him  to  nothing, 
for  it  would  be  a  simple  thing  to  ride  in  the  other  direc 
tion  —  alone. 

Left  by  himself  again  he  wanted  to  think  of  his 
wife,  but  forced  the  image  of  Diana  into  the  eye  of 
his  mind.  She  was  a  woman  who  might  have  many 
lovers,  and  she  had  chosen  him.  Here  was  a  delectable 
morsel  many  men  would  have  enjoyed ;  but  Arthur  con 
templated  it  without  enthusiasm,  for  as  men  go  he  was 
not  vain,  and  he  loved  another  woman. 

"  Any  man  would  go  in  my  place,"  he  thought,  and 
tried  to  sting  himself  into  action  by  thinking  of  the 
wrong  that  had  been  done  him,  of  the  years  when  he 
had  given  his  best  to  a  woman  who  did  not  want  it,  of 
the  other  man  —  But  there  seemed  no  power  for  heat 
or  anger  left  in  him.  He  saw  things  dispassionately  as 
from  a  distance,  and  his  own  cowardice  and  dishonor 
became  plain  to  him,  as  though  they  had  belonged  to 
another. 

The  clock  struck  quarter  to  ten  as  his  cigar  burnt 
out  between  his  fingers.  He  lit  another,  watching  the 
red  spark  of  it  with  satisfaction.  Even  then  he  had  not 
decided  to  go ;  but  he  had  ceased  to  struggle,  and  left 
the  final  issue  to  impulse,  or  the  trend  of  fate. 

364 


DIANA 

Half  consciously  he  was  beginning  to  feel  that  it 
would  be  easier  to  go  than  to  stay.  Moreover,  his  going 
would  give  Gladys  freedom  and  happiness.  This  was 
so  evident  that  he  wondered  he  had  not  thought  of  it 
before.  There  would  be  wrong  both  ways,  wrong  and 
misery.  Perhaps  it  did  not  matter  which  way  his  de 
cision  fell.  Life  was  a  paltry  thing  at  best.  And  so  his 
thoughts  drifted,  hedging  and  compromising  during 
the  last  fifteen  minutes.  And  suddenly  the  clock  struck 
ten.  He  looked  up  at  Diana's  house  for  the  signal,  and 
it  came  almost  immediately,  —  a  streaming  banner  of 
light  from  the  east  window.  At  the  same  instant  he 
heard  his  car  panting  and  straining  thunderously  as 
it  waited  for  him  around  the  corner.  Rising  slowly,  he 
stretched  himself  wondering  still  what  he  should  do, 
but  wondering  idly,  uninterestedly,  as  though  about  an 
action  that  did  not  concern  him,  for  it  seemed  to  matter 
so  little  either  way. 

While  he  stood,  another  window  flamed  in  the  eastern 
chamber.  Diana's  signals  were  sumptuous,  vital,  like 
herself,  and  he  knew  that  life  would  be  intolerably 
dreary  and  comfortless  without  her.  Moreover,  if  he 
went  with  Diana,  Gladys  would  be  free.  He  waited  to 
take  a  few  more  puffs  at  his  cigar,  and  then  he  lifted 
his  bag. 

"  I  suppose  that  I  might  as  well,"  he  murmured,  and 
moved  toward  the  automobile  to  give  his  order.  There 
was  a  mail  box  under  the  gas-lamp,  and  before  entering 
the  car  he  dropped  his  letter  to  Gladys  under  the  iron 
tonsfue. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 


G. 


[LADYS  received  her  husband's  letter  by  the  mid- 
morning  mail. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  she  told  her  maid.  "  Mr.  Daven 
port  may  be  sending  me  some  directions  about  his 
return,"  and  she  read  the  note  in  silence. 

"There  are  no  orders,"  she  added  quietly.  "Mr. 
Davenport  does  not  return  —  just  yet." 

Mary  Whiteside  was  spending  several  days  with 
her;  but  without  explanation  Gladys  shut  herself  in 
her  own  room,  where  she  could  face  the  monstrous  and 
incredible  thing  alone.  Spreading  the  paper  on  her 
knee  she  read  his  words  again,  and  then  turned  it  over 
wonderingly,  with  her  hand  shaking  a  little,  to  see  if 
there  were  not  some  word  of  further  explanation, — 
something  to  mitigate  the  crude  brutality  of  his  an 
nouncement. 

"  I  dare  say  that  you  will  not  be  sorry  to  hear  that  I 
am  going  off  with  Diana  to-night.  We  shall  not  come 
back." 

Her  husband  had  left  her ;  that  was  evident.  Poor 
Arthur!  Had  she  made  him  unhappy  enough  for 
that  ?  Unhappy  enough  to  fly  from  her  to  such  preca 
rious  excitement  as  he  would  find  with  Diana  Hart? 

3G6 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE   SHADOW 

She  sat  long  without  moving  while  she  thought  it 
over.  There  were  two  points  of  view  which  some  wo 
men  would  have  grasped  at  once,  but  which  did  not 
appear  to  her  at  all.  One  was  the  ignominy  of  her 
position  before  the  world  as  a  deserted  wife.  The  other 
was  her  legal  freedom  to  follow  the  call  of  her  heart. 
Gladys  had  descended  too  deep  into  the  abyss  of  suf 
fering  to  hear  the  chatter  of  a  social  world,  and  her 
broken  marriage  left  her  morally  no  freer  than  before 
to  yield  to  a  love  that  had  violated  her  holy  of  holies. 
But  below  dismay,  pity,  and  some  remorse,  she  saw 
growing  a  passionate  relief  in  her  freedom  from  a 
marriage  which  had  become  dreary  and  hateful,  and  in 
the  freedom  she  felt  that  her  nature  could  rise  gladly 
once  more,  even  to  the  point  of  combatting  her  degrad 
ing  love. 

Presently  she  summoned  Mary  to  tell  her  the  truth. 
She  knew  the  letter  must  have  been  posted  on  Satur 
day  night,  and  it  was  more  than  probable  that  the 
Monday  morning  papers  would  contain  full  particulars 
of  the  elopement. 

Mary  was  speechless  with  dismay  and  a  conscious 
inability  to  treat  a  situation  of  such  heroic  circum 
stance,  but  the  deserted  wife  was  calm. 

"  Poor  Arthur !  "  she  repeated.  "  I  did  not  know  that 
I  had  made  him  so  unhappy.  And  of  course  he  must 
have  his  freedom  at  once." 

"  If  it  was  any  one  but  Diana ! "  she  added  a  little 
later.  "  But  I  don't  believe  she  will  make  him  any  hap 
pier  than  I  did." 

367 


THE   EVASION 

Sunday  was  spent  in  writing  to  her  family  and  law 
yers.  "  For  of  course  he  must  marry  her  as  soon  as 
possible,"  she  said. 

"  Divorce  seems  so  perfectly  terrible  !  "  said  Mary, 
whose  face  did  not  lose  the  expression  of  scared  be 
wilderment  that  it  had  assumed  on  first  hearing  the 
news. 

"  Would  n't  it  be  still  more  terrible  if  he  could  not 
have  a  divorce?"  asked  Gladys,  with  unmoved  com 
posure. 

Mary  twisted  her  hands  helplessly.  "  And  it  will  all 
be  in  the  papers,"  she  moaned. 

But  before  the  papers  arrived,  and  in  the  first  wan 
gray  of  dawn,  there  came  a  messenger  to  the  house 
who  shivered  in  the  morning  air,  and  solacing  himself 
with  vigorous  chews  of  tobacco  banged  upon  the  door, 
and  asked  of  a  sleepy  and  disheveled  maid  if  anybody 
by  the  name  of  Davenport  lived  there.  On  being  in 
formed  that  there  was  a  lady  of  that  name,  the  mes 
senger  delivered  a  yellow  envelope,  and  demanded  a 
signature.  It  appeared  that  the  maid  could  not  write 
her  name,  much  less  the  name  of  another,  and  by  the 
time  that  Gladys  had  been  roused  to  sign  for  her  tele 
gram  the  entire  establishment  was  awake,  and  Mary, 
shaking  with  cold  and  anxiety,  stood  in  her  bare  feet 
on  the  threshold  of  her  friend's  room. 

"It  is  possibly  the  news  of  Arthur's  elopement," 
said  Gladys  wearily  from  where  she  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed.  Wrapping  the  bedclothes  about  her  shoulders 
she  pushed  the  hair  from  her  eyes  in  order  to  see  the 

368 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE   SHADOW 

telegram,  and  almost  immediately  she  gave  a  cry,  letting 
the  paper  flutter  to  the  ground. 

"  How  horrible !  how  horrible  !  "  she  whispered. 
"  Read  it,  Mary,"  and  she  sat  huddled  in  the  blankets 
while  Mary  read  of  the  automobile  accident  which  had 
checked  Arthur  and  Diana  Hart  when  barely  over  the 
threshold  of  their  life  together.  Diana  had  been  killed, 
and  Arthur  was  in  the  hospital,  where  his  death  was 
hourly  expected.  The  telegram  was  from  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood. 

"  Oh,  Gladys  !  Gladys  ! "  Mary  sobbed  hysterically, 
"how  terrible  to  die  like  that  —  in  sin  !  " 

"  It  is  as  well  to  die  in  sin  as  to  live  in  it,"  said 
Gladys,  her  quivering  nerves  rasped  by  Mary's  futile 
emotion. 

She  smoothed  the  crumpled  paper  with  shaking  fin 
gers.  "  The  accident  must  have  occurred  by  yesterday 
noon.  He  may  not  be  still  alive." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  not  die.  Perhaps  it  will  never  be 
known  that  they  were  running  away,"  said  Mary.  "  And 
if  he  lives,  perhaps  you  will  go  back  to  him — since 
Diana  is  dead." 

"  I  shall  never  go  back  to  him,"  answered  Gladys, 
quietly,  but  with  a  hardness  of  manner  that  Mary  had 
recently  and  most  reluctantly  begun  to  observe  in  her. 

A  later  telegram,  from  the  same  source,  brought 
news  that  reports  of  Arthur's  injuries  had  been  exag 
gerated.  It  was  even  considered  possible  that  he  might 
survive  them.  And  then  came  the  morning  papers 
with  hectic  accounts  of  the  accident,  and  hints  as  to 

369 


THE   EVASION 

causes  of  the  nocturnal  journey.  Diana  had  written 
freely  to  her  friends  on  the  eve  of  departure,  pleading 
no  extenuating  circumstance  beyond  the  fact  of  her 
love  for  Arthur,  and  fatigue  of  conventional  life.  She 
had  made  certain  statements  to  her  lawyer  with  instruc 
tions  that  he  make  them  public  or  not  as  he  thought 
best,  and  for  the  next  few  days  the  papers  indulged  in 
an  orgy  of  sensationalism.  The  fashionable  worlds  of 
two  continents  were  aware  that  Mrs.  Davenport's  hus 
band  had  left  her,  and  that  a  vengeance,  swift,  terrible, 
but  happily  dramatic,  had  overtaken  the  delinquents. 

In  the  meantime  it  could  scarcely  be  said  that  Arthur 
lived,  save  in  so  far  as  he  did  not  die.  Very  soon  it 
began  to  be  suggested  that  Mrs.  Davenport  should  for 
give  her  husband  in  view  of  his  probable  death,  or  the 
condition  of  invalidism  in  which  he  must  endure  his 
life  if  it  were  saved. 

Arthur  had  received  his  injury  while  trying  to  save 
Diana,  and  it  was  from  admiration  as  much  as  pity 
that  popular  blame  swerved  from  him  sufficiently  to 
attack  his  wife. 

Her  own  conduct  during  the  past  months  was  sub 
jected  to  burning  criticism.  Her  friendship  with  a  cer 
tain  distinguished  foreigner  was  discussed,  as  well  as 
her  reckless  social  gayety.  Diana  was  known  to  be 
a  powerful  and  unscrupulous  woman,  and  there  were 
those  among  Arthur's  friends  who  said  openly  that 
Gladys's  neglect  had  driven  him  to  another  woman's 
love.  Moreover,  it  was  rumored  that  in  his  delirium 
Arthur  called  upon  the  name  of  his  wife. 

370 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE   SHADOW 

Mrs.  Stanwood  visited  her  niece  for  several  days 
with  the  secret  intent  of  discussing  the  situation  from 
this  unexpected  point  of  view. 

"  You  would  be  considered  an  angel  of  light  to  go 
back  to  him,"  she  said. 

"  But  I  shall  not  go  back,"  answered  Gladys  very 
quietly. 

She  spoke  with  well-poised  calm,  and  Mrs.  Stanwood 
was  conscious  of  a  new  firmness  in  her  attitude,  a  firm 
ness  that  was  uncompromising,  and,  as  Mary  White- 
side  had  felt,  somewhat  hard. 

Gladys  bore  no  resentment  for  her  desertion,  nor 
did  she  pretend  to  any  particular  grief ;  but  she  had 
suffered  from  life  in  the  way  that  it  is  not  good  for  a 
woman  to  suffer.  She  was  degraded  in  her  own  eyes, 
and  her  nature  was  hardening  in  self-defense,  as  the 
tissues  of  a  man's  body  will  harden  about  the  bullet  it 
must  carry  for  life. 

"  Poor  Arthur,"  sighed  Mrs.  Stanwood,  drawing  a 
strand  of  silken  floss  through  her  embroidery  needle. 
"  He  is  quite  a  pathetic  figure  now." 

"  Does  he  want  me  to  go  back  to  him  ? "  asked 
Gladys,  with  calm  eyes  on  Mrs.  Stanwood's  face. 

Her  aunt  admitted  that  he  had  not  said  so,  but  then, 
he  was  scarcely  in  a  condition  to  say  anything. 

"  But  if  he  does  want  you  later,  as  he  certainly 
will?" 

"  Of  course  I  have  thought  of  that,"  said  Gladys 
composedly. 

"Yes?" 

371 


THE   EVASION 

"  And  I  shall  not  go.  Arthur  has  money  and  friends. 
He  will  not  need  me,  and  this  much  freedom  I  must 
have  —  the  freedom  of  going  my  own  way.  Do  you 
and  Uncle  Willie  want  me  to  go  back  ?  " 

With  regard  to  Willie,  Mrs.  Stanwood  allowed  her 
self  some  reservations.  His  attitude  toward  the  whole 
affair,  from  his  unconcealed  satisfaction  at  Arthur's 
desertion,  to  his  excited  fear  that  Gladys  would  return 
to  him,  was  only  explicable  on  grounds  of  the  general 
breaking  up  of  his  system,  and  his  weakening  intellect. 

In  answer  to  her  niece's  last  question  Aunt  Edith 
admitted  that  personally  she  felt  there  was  something 
to  be  said  for  the  course  in  question. 

"  What  can  be  said  for  it?"  asked  Gladys. 

Mrs.  Stanwood  smiled  drolly.  "  I  fear  that  none  of 
my  reasons  would  appeal  to  you,"  she  said. 

Gladys  smiled  her  comprehension.  "  Probably  not," 
she  answered. 

"  Your  position  would  be  far  better  as  a  forgiving 
wife  than  as  a  divorced  woman ;  you  would  be  more 
respected." 

Gladys  smiled  again,  a  smile  grave  and  somewhat 
bitter,  that  sat  strangely  on  her  tender  and  delicate 
lips. 

"  Then  of  course  you  would  have  more  money.  But 
this  is  a  point  that  I  know  you  are  too  unwise  to  con 
sider." 

"  Thank  you,  Aunt  Edith." 

Then  it  was  that  Mrs.  Stanwood  brought  the  argu 
ment  with  which  she  hoped  to  prevail. 

372 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

"  It  is  one  thing  to  divorce  the  man  who  is  living 
happily  with  the  woman  for  whom  he  has  betrayed 
you ;  it  is  quite  another  to  divorce  a  lonely  and  help 
less  invalid." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,  too,"  said  Gladys.  "  The 
divorce  is  a  side  issue,  of  course,  but  this  is  a  good  time 
to  say  that  I  shall  do  nothing  about  it  unless  Arthur 
desires  absolute  freedom.  For  myself  it  does  not  mat 
ter.  But  Arthur  and  I  made  too  great  a  failure  of  our 
life  together  to  try  it  again.  We  shall  simply  live  apart. 
He  has  chosen  to  leave  me  —  let  it  be.  If  he  is  dying 
and  wishes  me  to  come  to  him,  I  will  do  so ;  but  if  he 
lives,  I  shall  never  go  back." 

There  was  a  sense  of  finality  in  the  very  composure 
with  which  her  words  were  uttered,  and  Mrs.  Stanwood 
tactfully  refrained  from  pressing  the  subject  further. 

"  The  courts  will  doubtless  give  you  all  you  need  in 
the  way  of  money,"  she  suggested. 

"  I  think  there  will  be  no  difficulty  about  that,"  an 
swered  her  niece.  "  I  shall  keep  nothing  but  this  house 
and  place,  which  Arthur  deeded  to  me  last  spring,  and 
the  property  he  settled  on  me  when  we  were  married. 
It  will  be  enough  for  papa  and  me  to  live  on." 

"  But,  my  dear !   You  could  claim  thousands  a  year." 

"  I  could  never  take  money  from  Arthur  except  as 
his  wife.  The  jewels  are  already  in  charge  of  his  law 
yers." 

"  You  have  given  up  your  jewels  ?  The  sets  of  em 
eralds  and  sapphires  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

373 


THE   EVASION 

"  Gladys  !  you  are  mad  —  you  are  worse  —  you  are 
a  fool !  They  were  personal  presents  from  him  !  They 
are  not  to  be  matched  in  the  country  "  — 

"  I  cannot  keep  them,"  she  answered ;  and  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood  found  her  as  determined  upon  this  point  as  upon 
the  other. 

"  It  is  a  terrible  waste,"  she  moaned  sincerely.  "  Who 
will  wear  them  ?  It  makes  one  wish  that  Diana  had 
lived."  Then  she  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"  Did  you  know  that  Richard  Copeland  had  not  gone 
out  West  ?  "  she  asked. 

«  No." 

"  The  story  of  his  cheating  at  poker  reached  there 
before  he  did,  and  the  chance  of  editorship  was  with 
drawn." 

"  Ah,"  said  Gladys. 

That  evening  she  wondered  if,  after  all,  she  should 
ever  see  Dick  again.  Under  the  excitement  of  Arthur's 
flight  and  accident  the  secret  misery  of  her  existence 
remained  unmoved.  There  were  hours  when  the  misery 
became  a  torture,  and  she  wondered  how  she  was  to  en 
dure  a  life  in  which  her  eyes  were  never  to  see  him,  or 
her  ears  to  hear  him,  or  her  hands  to  touch  him  again. 

"  The  pain  is  too  great  —  I  cannot  bear  it  —  I  hope 
that  it  will  kill  me  !  "  she  cried ;  but  knew  that  it  would 
not,  and  set  herself  with  desolate  patience  to  wait  till 
the  passing  of  months  and  years  should  bring  her  re 
lief.  "  For  the  time  must  come  when  I  shall  not  mind 
so  much,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps  even  in  a  month,  or  two, 
or  three,  I  shall  suffer  less." 

374 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE   SHADOW 

During-  these  days  William  Stanwood  sat  in  the 
"  Beetlery,"  struggling  with  confused  and  painful 
thoughts.  He  knew  that  his  end  was  near,  and  sought 
to  decide  what  he  should  do. 

At  last  there  came  an  hour  when  he  went  for  the  last 
time  to  his  sanctuary,  and  was  found  lying  across  the 
threshold  helpless,  mumbling  uncouth  and  inhuman 
sounds.  His  second  stroke  had  come,  and  they  bore 
him  up  to  his  chamber,  which  he  was  not  to  leave  till 
carried  to  a  final  resting-place. 

Rallying  slightly  after  the  shock,  he  made  it  evident 
to  his  caretakers  that  he  was  not  yet  ready  to  be  done 
with  existence.  His  eyes  burned,  and  he  made  repeated 
efforts  to  ask  for  something  or  some  one,  but  the  words 
rolled  shapeless  and  inarticulate  between  his  lips.  Just 
at  midnight  he  moved  his  right  hand  and  made  a  sign 
as  though  he  would  write.  They  brought  him  paper, 
and  his  fingers  struggled  feebly  with  the  tracing  of  one 
word,  which  the  nurse  deciphered  with  difficulty. 

"  Gladys  ?  "  she  interrogated. 

His  eyes  gave  eloquent  assent. 

"  You  want  her  ?  " 

He  signed  for  the  pencil  again.    "  Hurry,"  he  wrote. 

For  several  hours  his  condition  underwent  no  change, 
nor  did  he  cease  to  look  at  the  door  till  his  niece  ar 
rived. 

She  came  at  once  to  his  bedside,  and  kneeling  beside 
him  laid  her  cheek  against  his  hand  while  the  tears 
coursed  unreservedly  down  her  face.  The  body  of 
William  Stanwood  was  already  dead,  but  never  1 

375 


THE  EVASION 

the  spirit  which  looked  from  his  eyes  seemed  so  much 
alive.  Yet  it  was  not  the  simple,  fearless  spirit  that 
had  been  his  during  his  long  life,  but  rather  one  that 
was  tortured  and  struggling. 

Gladys  soon  realized  that  it  was  not  only  to  see  her 
that  he  had  sent  for  her ;  but  to  tell  her  something 
which  he  feared  would  never  be  said.  Now  and  then 
his  wife  entered  the  room  to  stand,  cool  and  fragrant, 
by  his  bedside. 

"  He  has  turned  against  me,"  she  whispei'ed,  at  the 
door.  "  Poor  Willie  !  he  must  be  very  near  the  end." 

His  niece  never  left  him,  and  on  the  afternoon  of  her 
arrival  his  right  hand  moved  again.  Pushing  paper 
beneath  it  she  closed  his  fingers  over  a  pencil.  The  fin 
gers  shook  with  the  effort ;  they  traced  one  letter,  and 
the  pencil  dropped.  He  knew  that  it  would  never  be 
lifted  again  and  the  expression  in  his  eyes  was  as  a 
visible  cry  of  anguish. 

The  letter  was  D,  and  Gladys  had  a  sudden  prescience. 

"Is  it  Dick,  Uncle  Will?  Is  it  Dick? "she  whis 
pered.  "  Close  your  eyes  if  it  is  not." 

The  eyes  remained  open. 

"  Dick,"  she  repeated  in  the  same  tone,  and  her  eyes 
were  almost  as  haggard  as  his  own.  "  What  of  him  ? 
Oh,  Uncle  Will,  what  of  him  ?  " 

She  knelt  at  his  side  with  her  face  close  to  his  that 
she  might  not  miss  any  shade  of  meaning  that  went 
from  him. 

"  I  love  him,  Uncle  Will !  I  have  loved  him  always," 
she  said. 

376 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE   SHADOW 

His  eyes  grew  desperate,  agonizing,  his  lips  mumbled 
loosely,  and  the  effort  to  articulate  was  torture  to  make 
and  terrible  to  see.  Gradually  his  niece  realized  that 
he  was  dying  and  that  he  knew  it. 

"  Bring  lights,"  she  commanded.  "  Bring  them  close, 
closer  yet !  There  is  something  that  he  wishes  to  say  — 
perhaps  I  can  see  it  if  there  is  light  enough." 

An  hour  passed,  and  a  gray  wanness  began  to  sweep 
over  his  face  with  awful  swiftness. 

"  Uncle  Will,  try  —  try  to  tell  me  !  "  she  said,  with 
dry  sobs  tearing  at  her  throat. 

His  eyes  blazed  suddenly,  and  the  sweat  broke  out  on 
his  face  as  he  made  his  supreme  and  final  effort. 

"  Dick,"  he  said. 

The  light  in  his  eyes  swayed  like  flame  in  the  wind, 
and  then  it  went  out.  William  Stanwood  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

BURNT  PAPER 


TJ 


HE  morning  after  Mr.  Stanwood's  death  Gladys 
found  his  widow  in  the  library,  and  a  prey  to  excite 
ment  such  as  her  tranquil  nerves  had  rarely  experi 
enced. 

"  I  have  found  his  last  will,"  she  cried,  "  and  he  has 
cut  me  off  with  only  half  of  the  property.  Whom  do 
you  suppose  that  I  divide  it  with  ?  " 

"  If  it  is  with  me  you  may  have  it  back  again,"  said 
Gladys. 

"  I  divide  it  with  Richard  Copeland  !  "  She  held  up 
the  typewritten  sheets  and  struck  them  angrily. 

"  This  is  a  duplicate  copy,  or  I  should  have  destroyed 
it  as  easily  as  waste  paper  and  kept  my  counsel,"  she 
continued.  "  Willie  has  not  been  himself  for  several 
months,  and  Mr.  Copeland  has  taken  advantage  of  his 
weakness  to  repair  his  own  fortunes.  This  will  is  dated 
on  the  day  after  the  visit  he  made  us." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  Mr.  Copeland  took  advantage 
of  him,"  said  Gladys  gently.  "  I  watched  them  to 
gether,  and  —  and  —  Dick  seemed  fond  of  him.  I  think 
he  was  touched  by  Uncle  Willie's  goodness.  No  one 
can  be  bad  all  the  time.  I  do  not  believe  that  he 
schemed  to  get  the  money  from  you." 

378 


BUKNT  PAPER 

She  turned  her  white  and  quivering  face  on  the  chair 
so  that  Mrs.  Stanwood  should  not  see  it. 

"  He  shall  not  have  it,  whether  he  schemed  or  not," 
said  her  aunt.  "  There  is  plenty  of  proof  that  Willie's 
mind  had  weakened.  The  will  must  be  broken.  I  wish 
I  knew  who  had  the  original.  I  must  write  Hinckly 
and  Hinckly  of  this  at  once." 

As  Gladys  sat  in  her  uncle's  leather  armchair,  some 
thing  of  his  kind,  loyal,  and  simple  nature  seemed  to 
be  near  her,  bringing  comfort  to  her  lonely  heart  and 
spirit.  Tears,  that  had  ceased  to  flow  for  her  own  grief, 
coursed  freely  and  quietly  down  her  face. 

During  the  last  hours  of  his  life  the  impression  that 
his  unspoken  message  held  a  vital  significance  for  her 
had  been  strong ;  but  in  thinking  it  over  in  the  calmness 
of  aftermath  she  saw  how  unlikely  it  was,  and  attributed 
his  excitement  to  the  feverishness  of  a  failing  mind. 

Nothing  could  be  done  about  the  will  until  after  the 
funeral,  and  during  the  intervening  days  Gladys,  who 
was  very  quiet  and  more  gentle  than  she  had  been  for 
many  months,  sought  to  calm  her  aunt  on  the  subject  of 
the  will,  and  Richard  Copeland's  possible  share  in  it. 
Fortunately  for  every  one  concerned,  Mrs.  Stanwood's 
attention  was  evenly  divided  between  the  future  of  her 
property  and  the  immediate  consideration  of  her 
mourning. 

Mr.  Stanwood,  at  his  own  request,  was  buried  in  a 
little  churchyard  tucked  under  a  hill,  and  after  the 
funeral  lunch  was  served  at  his  home  for  members  of 
the  family,  as  there  was  no  early  train  to  town. 

379 


THE   EVASION 

In  the  hall  Mrs.  Stanwood,  who  was  a  dignified  and 
distinguished  figure  under  the  sweeping  lines  of  her 
crepe  veil,  called  her  niece  aside. 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Copeland  at  the  church?"  she 
asked. 

Yes,  Gladys  had  seen  him. 

"  He  is  coming  here,"  continued  Mrs.  Stanwood. 

"Here"- 

"  Yes,  and  I  could  see  that  he  knew  about  the  will. 
He  would  not  stay  to  luncheon,  but  he  is  coming  here 
to  speak  to  me.  Tell  James  to  send  him  to  me  in  the 
library." 

So  he  knew  about  the  will.  The  old  restless  torment 
was  upon  her  again.  It  caught  her  like  a  fever,  and 
corroded  the  balm  of  a  pure  and  sincere  sorrow  for  her 
uncle's  death. 

In  the  dining-room  she  joined  her  father  and  Molly 
and  Harold.  Harold  was  a  senior  at  Harvard,  and  had 
just  been  elected  captain  of  the  football  team,  from 
which  eminence  he  looked  at  Gladys  with  accusing  eyes. 
It  is  the  way  of  masculine  youth  to  be  impatient  with 
frailties  and  the  unconventional.  Harold  abhorred  his 
sister's  unpleasant  prominence. 

"  It  would  be  much  easier  for  all  of  us  if  you  could 
make  up  your  mind  whether  or  not  you  are  going  back 
to  your  husband,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind  not  to  go  back  to 
him,"  answered  Gladys  quietly. 

"  Under  ordinary  circumstances  no  one  could  expect 
you  to,"  continued  Harold;  "but  everybody  is  fond 

380 


BURNT  PAPER 

of  Arthur,  and  —  everybody  knows  that  Diana  was  a 
beast,  and  made  him  run  off  against  his  will,  and  that 
he  would  n't  have  gone  at  all  if  you  "  —  He  paused. 
«If  I ?" 

"  I  guess  you  know  well  enough.  It  does  n't  look 
well  to  be  so  unforgiving  to  a  poor  fellow  who  must  lie 
on  his  back  all  the  rest  of  his  days ;  and  it 's  infernally 
unpleasant  for  me,  because  all  the  world  knows  he  put 
me  through  college." 

Molly  was  secretly  shocked  and  unsympathetic.  "  It 
seems  positively  degenerate  to  be  mixed  up  with 
divorces,  and  elopements,  and  men,  the  way  Gladys  is," 
she  thought.  "  So  much  for  a  European  education." 

But  she  gave  no  outward  expression  of  her  opinion 
on  this  occasion  beyond  an  atmosphere  of  disapproval, 
of  which  Gladys  was  definitely  conscious. 

Professor  Lawrence  drew  his  eldest  daughter  aside 
for  some  private  words,  and  his  gentle  old  eyes  were 
distressed  and  anxious. 

"  You  look  ill,  my  dear,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  better  than  I  was,"  she  answered. 

"  And  unhappy  —  you  look  unhappy,  also." 

She  was  silent. 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  for  you,  —  for  the  peace  of 
your  heart  and  spirit,  —  if  you  could  forgive  your  un 
fortunate  husband  ?  " 

"  Dear  papa,"  she  said,  and  kissed  him,  "  I  believe 
that  you  are  the  best  man  in  the  world,  now  that  Uncle 
Willie  is  gone." 

"  Would  you  not  be  happier  ?  " 
381 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  do  not  know ;  but  I  shall  never  go  back  to  him." 

"  It  is  not  well,  iny  child,  to  be  too  hard  upon  one 
another." 

"  I  forgive  him,"  she  said,  "  if  it  can  be  said  that 
there  is  anything  to  forgive.  I  could  wish  that  Diana 
had  lived  to  love  him  and  take  care  of  him,  if  she  had 
been  capable  of  either,  which  she  was  not.  But  I  must 
have  my  freedom.  It  is  the  only  thing  left  me,  and  I 
will  not  go  back  to  my  bondage  as  Arthur's  wife.  It  is 
his  own  act  that  has  made  me  free." 

"  I  saw  him  yesterday,"  said  her  father. 

"  You  saw  Arthur  ?  " 

"Yes,  for  the  first  time.  You  would  hardly  know 
him." 

"  But  he  is  going  to  live  ?  " 

"  He  is  going  to  get  better ;  but  he  can  never  get 
well.  A  piece  of  machinery  entered  his  lung,  and  this 
injury,  as  well  as  the  one  to  his  spine,  will  make  his 
existence  a  precarious  one." 

"  Poor  Arthur!  "  said  Gladys  softly.  "  He  was  not 
big  enough  for  such  a  fate." 

"  He  must  live  in  the  South,  if  he  lives  at  all,"  con 
tinued  the  professor ;  "  and  they  hope  to  move  him  be 
fore  January.  I  understand  that  the  Sandersons  have 
offered  to  take  him  down  on  their  yacht.  It  is  a  pity, 
my  dear,  that  you  saw  so  much  of  that  Frenchman,  for 
it  helped  to  turn  public  sympathy  in  your  husband's 
direction." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Gladys  sincerely.  "  I  hope  every 
one  will  be  good  to  him ;  and  they  will  be.  People  are 

382 


BUENT  PAPEK 

always  good  to  Arthur.   He  will  not  be  lonely.   He  will 
not  need  me." 

"I  —  I  have  brought  you  a  letter  from  him." 

"  A  letter  "  - 

"  It  took  him  several  days  to  write  it,  a  word  or  two 
at  a  time,  and  he  kept  it  hidden  so  that  no  one  should 
know." 

The  professor  searched  among  the  documents  in  his 
wallet. 

"  I  think  this  is  it,"  he  said,  peering  near-sightedly 
at  a  scrap  of  paper ;  and  Gladys,  turning  her  back  to 
him,  read :  — 

"  They  are  beginning  to  talk  of  your '  forgiving  me 
and  coming  back.  I  don't  know  that  I  am  worth  bear 
ing  a  grudge  against,  but  I  know  that  I  am  not  worth 
coming  back  to.  I  was  happy  in  a  way  with  poor 
Diana  for  that  one  day,  and  I  should  have  been  happy 
in  the  same  way  until  she  got  tired  of  me.  But  I  never 
loved  any  woman  but  you. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  this,  for  it  sounds  as 
though  I  were  urging  you  to  come  back,  and  if  there 
is  a  God  in  heaven  He  knows  I  would  not  do  that. 

"  I  am  not  worth  coming  back  to,  which  is  the  only 
thing  my  mind  is  really  clear  about  just  now.  Ask 
Uncle  Will." 

The  handwriting  had  faltered  into  illegibility  at  the 
signature.  Here  was  Arthur  at  his  best.  The  tears 
stood  in  Gladys's  eyes  as  she  read,  and  she  was  forced 
to  conscious  acknowledgment  of  what  she  had  known 
from  the  beginning,  —  her  husband  wanted  her. 

383 


THE   EVASION 

"  But  even  then,"  she  said,  "  he  has  no  right,  and 
there  will  be  so  many  others  —  he  will  never  be  lonely. 
I  shall  never  go  back." 

When  Dick  was  ushered  into  the  library  Mrs.  Stan- 
wood  received  him  graciously. 

"  I  asked  to  see  you  apropos  of  a  somewhat  unpleas 
ant  matter  of  which  I  am  sure  you  will  be  as  surprised 
to  know  as  I  was,"  she  began  suavely. 

"  I  had  my  surprise  yesterday,"  said  Dick.  "  You 
are  probably  speaking  of  the  will." 

"  Ah  —  you  know,  then." 

"  The  last  day  I  saw  Mr.  Stanwood  he  handed  me 
an  envelope  which  I  was  only  to  open  on  hearing  of 
his  death.  Beside  some  personal  matter,  which  need 
not  be  repeated,  I  found  a  will  in  which  I  am  left  one 
half  of  his  personal  property.  A  copy  of  the  same 
document  is,  I  understand,  in  this  house." 

"  It  is,  and  was  found  by  me  the  morning  after 
his  death.  And  now,  Mr.  Copeland,  what  are  we  go 
ing  to  do  about  it?  My  poor  husband  was,  as  you 
know,  not  himself  mentally  during  the  last  months  of 
his  life  "  - 

Dick  assented. 

"  And  I  am  sure  that  you  do  not  wish  to  take  advan 
tage  of  his  weakness,"  she  continued ;  "  at  the  same 
time,  these  things  are  apt  to  be  troublesome,  and  I 
thought  it  would  be  so  much  more  comfortable  if  we 
had  a  few  words  about  it  in  private." 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Stanwood  became  aware  that 
Dick  was  looking  at  her  with  amusement. 

384 


BUKNT  PAPER 

"  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  had  Mr.  Stanwood  been 
quite  himself  he  would  never  have  made  this  last  will," 
he  said ;  "  and  there  are  several  ways  of  arranging  it. 
One  is  for  you  to  break  the  will,  which  would  be  ex 
pensive  and  troublesome  for  you.  Another  is  to  allow 
the  document  to  be  executed,  after  which  I  could  hand 
the  property  over  to  you ;  but  that  would  be  expensive 
and  troublesome  for  me,  and  I  have  no  money  to 
spend  on  lawyer's  fees.  The  simplest  way  would  be  for 
us  to  burn  both  original  and  copy  of  the  will  in  each 
other's  presence,  and  I  suggest  that  we  do  it  now  and 
here  without  further  discussion." 

A  few  moments  later  Leslie  Aldrich  tapped  on  the 
French  window  with  his  cane,  and,  on  being  let  in  by 
Dick,  he  perceived  the  smoke  of  burnt  paper. 

"  So  you  have  summarily  disposed  of  the  question," 
he  remarked,  for  Mrs.  Stanwood  had  told  him  about  the 
will. 

"I  find  myself  in  the  position  of  having  accepted 
a  present  of  one  million  or  so  of  dollars  from  Mr. 
Copeland,"  she  said,  and  turned  to  Dick  with  her  face 
a  little  flushed.  "I  —  you  are  the  first  man  in  my  life 
to  whom  I  have  not  known  what  to  say,"  she  added. 

"From  all  of  which  I  judge  that  my  boy  has  not 
lived  up  to  his  reputation,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich. 

Mrs.  Stanwood's  flush  deepened. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  ever  thank  you,  Mr.  Cope- 
land.  I  do  not  even  see  how  I  can  try,"  she  said. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  only  making  a  coup  de  theatre" 
said  Dick,  looking  about  for  his  hat. 

385 


THE   EVASION 

"  One  does  not  make  them  at  such  a  price."  Mrs. 
Stanwood  laughed  a  little  with  relief  and  excitement. 
"  Perhaps  you  will  let  me  beg  your  pardon  if  I  may 
not  thank  you,"  she  added  seriously,  holding  out  a 
hand  which  Dick  took  without  enthusiasm.  "  I  have 
done  you  great  injustice  to-day,  and  I  now  begin  to 
think  that  the  injustice  must  be  one  that  dates  back 
much  further  than  to-day.  I  am  sorry." 

Dick  answered  nothing  as  he  dropped  her  hand. 

"  It  seems  as  though  the  least  I  could  do  would  be 
to  acknowledge  our  injustice  publicly,"  she  continued, 
"but  for  family  reasons,  —  I  allude  to  my  nephew, 
and  the  necessary  explanations  in  his  connection,  —  I 
am  not  going  to  do  so.  You  must  think  of  me  what 
you  will.  I  stand  confessed  before  you  as  a  fabulously 
indebted  and  ungrateful  woman,  and  can  only  repeat 
that  —  I  am  sorry." 

She  spoke  with  the  frankness  that  was  her  best 
quality,  and  Dick  yielded  a  certain  admiration  to  her 
almost  manly  directness. 

A  little  later  she  left  the  two  men  alone. 

"  The  thing  I  am  puzzling  over  now  is  whether  your 
day  is  definitely  over  or  only  just  beginning,"  observed 
Mr.  Aldrich. 

"  I  think  that  one  of  them  is  definitely  over,"  said 
Dick.  "  But  there 's  always  life,  and  the  fight  that 
makes  life  worth  while." 

"  I  have  a  suspicion  that  you  will  win  out  yet,  my 
boy,  though  you  have  an  infernal  mess  of  misunder 
standing  to  live  down.  What  are  you  doing  now  ?  " 

386 


BURNT  PAPER 

"  Getting  my  book  into  shape." 

"And  after  that?" 

Dick  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It 's  a  beastly  nuisance  that  this  story  of  the  poker 
game  should  have  come  up  again." 

"  I  have  an  idea  that  I  can  make  any  man  disbelieve 
that  the  moment  I  choose." 

"  I  believe  that  you  could,  Richard.  I  believe  that 
you  could."  Mr.  Aldrich  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"  I  suppose  now  you  are  ready  to  believe  that  she 
was  not  happy  with  him." 

"  If  she  was  unhappy,  it  was  not  I  who  made  her 
so." 

"  But  if  you  had  known  how  it  was  to  turn  out  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  acted  differently." 

"  And  now,  Richard,  —  now  ?  " 

"  Now  it  can  make  little  difference  which  of  us  she 
believes  is  guilty,"  said  Dick.  After  a  while  he  turned 
his  back  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  "  I  have  a 
ruined  fortune  and  a  dishonored  name,"  he  added. 

"  In  so  far  as  fortune  is  concerned,  I  have  left  you 
the  whole  of  mine,"  began  Leslie  Aldrich,  looking  more 
than  usually  irritable.  "  And  there  is  also  a  little  sum 
which  I  put  aside  for  you  at  the  time  you  went  in  for 
reforming  those  wretched  beggars,  —  which  was  a  great 
liberty  on  your  part,  and  I  knew  they  would  give  you 
your  deserts  before  they  were  through  with  you.  The 
money  has  been  rolling  up  very  satisfactorily  all  this 
time.  It  only  wants  your  signature  to  make  it  yours." 

"  How  unreasonably  and  awfully  good  of  you  !  "  ex- 
387 


THE   EVASION 

claimed  Dick.    "  But  I  —  you  see,  I  can't  possibly  take 
it." 

"  The  devil  you  can't !   And  why  not  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  don't  need  it." 

"  Fiddlesticks,  Richard  !  Fiddlesticks !  Look  at  your 
coat." 

"  It 's  a  very  good  coat,"  said  Dick.  "  It 's  as  good 
a  coat  as  I  have  had  in  years.  A  trifle  warm  for  the 
season  perhaps,  but  I  shan't  find  it  so  in  December." 

"  I  see  that  you  are  determined  to  annoy  me,"  com 
plained  Mr.  Aldrich.  "  You  always  have  done  so,  and 
I  suppose  you  always  will.  You  worried  me  into  pre 
mature  old  age,  and  now  you  willfully  and  wantonly 
worry  me  to  death." 

Dick  smiled.  "  And  you  have  been  the  best  friend  I 
ever  had,"  he  said.  "  But,  you  see,  when  it 's  a  question 
of  money  —  Besides,  I  have  enough  left  to  live  as  I 
always  have  lived  "  — 

"  And  a  devilish  poor  way  that  is ! "  muttered  the 
older  man. 

"  I  should  probably  give  the  rest  away  to  some  re 
form  board  or  other.  Now,  how  would  you  feel  to  have 
your  money  helping  to  propagate  reforms  ?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich  soberly. 
"  You  mean  that  you  would  give  it  all  away?" 

"  In  one  form  or  another,  yes." 

"  Richard,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Aldrich,  "  all  this  giving 
away  of  money  looks  perilously  like  Christianity ;  and 
I  am  hanged  if  I  don't  think  some  of  you  atheists  the 
best  Christians  we  have  !  " 

388 


BUENT  PAPER 

Dick  smiled  at  him  with  grave  amusement. 

"  As  for  the  money,"  continued  Mr.  Aldrich,  "  you 
might  as  well  take  it,  for  I  shan't  touch  it,  and  in  the 
bank  it  will  simply  roll  up  and  contribute  to  the  mil 
lions  of  naughty  capitalists.  I  don't  see  how  your  prin 
ciples  can  allow  you  to  permit  that." 

"  I  will  promise  to  remember  it  if  I  am  in  need," 
answered  Dick ;  "  and  the  fact  that  you  want  to  give  it 
—  I  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  say  thank  you." 

"  Don't  you  dare  to  try !  You  will  offend  me  seri 
ously  if  you  do.  Some  day  you  may  want  to  marry,  — 
who  can  tell  ?  —  and  then  it  would  come  in  where  it 
belonged,"  ventured  the  old  man,  who  had  just  per 
ceived  Gladys  standing  on  the  cliff's  edge,  a  lonely  and 
sombre  figure  in  black.  But  her  hair  suggested  a  bright 
emblem  of  insubordination  against  mourning  or  re 
straint. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ON    THE    CLIFF 

'N  leaving  the  library  Mrs.  Stan  wood  encountered 
her  niece  in  the  hall. 

"  Did  he  know  about  the  will  ?  "  asked  Gladys. 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  bound  to  say  that  he  behaved  very 
handsomely.  We  have  burned  both  copies." 

Gladys  turned  without  a  word  and  left  the  house. 
It  was  her  last  day  there,  and  passing  through  the 
ruined  garden  where  the  plants  were  black  and  stricken 
by  early  frosts,  she  went  on  beyond  the  terrace  wall  to 
the  edge  of  the  cliffs.  The  air  was  warm  and  still. 
Under  a  gray  sky  the  landscape  lay  subdued  and  lonely, 
and  out  over  the  motionless  sea  were  vast  spaces  of 
brooding  stillness.  But  neither  brooding  nor  stillness 
was  in  her  soul. 

She  had  seen  Dick  in  church,  and  his  face,  stern, 
lonely,  and  grave,  had  drawn  her  will  from  her.  She 
yearned  for  him  intolerably,  with  the  whole  of  her 
mind  and  heart  and  spirit.  And  now  she  asked  herself 
the  significance  of  good  and  evil.  Was  she  not  free 
to  choose  ?  Would  it  matter  when  the  last  sleep  came  ? 
Did  anything  matter,  save  that  the  hour  of  one's 
being  should  be  full  of  life,  since  this  life  might  be 
all? 

390 


ON  THE   CLIFF 

Her  love  for  Dick  seemed  greater  than  good  or  evil : 
it  was  a  part  of  timeless  things,  inevitable  as  the  swing 
of  great  tides,  as  the  coming  and  going  of  stars.  He 
was  part  of  herself,  and  if  a  part  of  him  were  evil  — 
what  then  ?  She  imagined  him  coming  to  her  alone 
through  the  brooding  silence,  and  she  knew  then  that 
the  struggle  would  be  over.  Sin,  pride,  resistance, 
—  these  things  were  words.  If  he  saw  her  now,  and 
came  to  her,  she  knew  that  she  would  go  with  him. 

And  just  then  Dick  came. 

She  heard  him  on  the  porch,  and  then  on  the  turf 
behind  her,  and  presently  he  stood  at  her  side  ;  but  she 
did  not  turn  to  look  at  him. 

"  How  still  it  is !  "  he  said. 

The  simple  words  were  slowly  and  quietly  spoken,  and 
as  she  heard  them  a  strange  thing  happened.  The  mis 
erable  and  discordant  vibrations  of  her  soul  fell  silent 
suddenly,  as  will  the  strings  of  a  harp  when  a  hand  is 
laid  upon  them.  She  did  not  speak.  It  was  enough 
that  he  stood  at  her  side. 

So  they  remained  in  silence,  and  the  world  was  very 
still,  as  he  had  said. 

"  May  I  tell  you  that  I  am  sorry  for  the  unhappiness 
I  know  you  must  suffer  in  the  loss  of  your  uncle?"  he 
said  at  last ;  and  then  turned  with  a  smile  breaking  into 
the  stern  gravity  of  his  face.  "  But  I  seem  to  have  told 
you  without  waiting  for  permission,  don't  I  ?  " 

She  realized  a  difference  in  his  attitude  towards  her. 
He  was  bearing  himself  easily,  as  one  friend  before 
another,  and  without  the  distance  and  restraint  with 

391 


THE   EVASION 

which  he  had  always  seemed  to  recognize  her  know 
ledge  of  his  guilt. 

"  You  were  very  good  to  him,"  she  said. 

"  I  thought  it  was  the  other  way." 

"  He  cared  for  you.  Your  name  was  the  last  word 
he  spoke.  He  tried  to  tell  me  something  about  you 
after  he  could  no  longer  speak.  Do  you  know  what  it 
was  that  he  wished  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  He  tried  up  to  the  moment  of  his  death.  I  wonder 
my  heart  did  not  break  to  hear  him."  Tears  stood  in 
her  eyes  as  she  lifted  them  to  meet  the  pity  in  his. 

Blind  instincts  within  her  were  feeling  their  way 
upwards  toward  the  light. 

"You  were  good  to  him,"  she  said.  "Why  have 
you  not  always  "  —  She  paused,  and  turned  away  her 
head. 

"  You  are  very  tired,"  said  Dick.  "  Would  n't  it 
rest  you  to  sit  here  where  no  one  can  find  you  ?  I  can 
get  you  a  rug  in  a  moment,  and  then  I  must  go." 

"It  is  not  worth  while,  for  I  must  go  back  myself," 
she  said  ;  but  neither  of  them  moved.  The  wash  of  a 
falling  wave  sounded  from  the  beach  below,  and  crows 
called  from  inland  pastures. 

Dick  had  himself  well  in  hand,  but  he  dared  not 
trust  himself  to  look  often  at  the  pale  and  tender  face 
of  the  black-robed  woman  at  his  side.  He  looked  in 
stead  at  the  sea,  and  for  a  while  Gladys  watched  it  with 
him.  Great  subdued  lights  roved  and  mused  upon  it. 
The  world  was  spacious  and  still.  Creation  seemed  im- 

392 


ON   THE   CLIFF 

bued  with  a  wide  leisure  in  which  truths  could  be  heard 
and  felt. 

Standing  by  Dick  she  felt  his  presence  draw  the  poi 
son  from  her  spirit.  He  was  there,  and  her  life  could 
hold  no  greater,  more  secure  content  than  this.  She 
looked  at  him,  and  for  the  first  time  she  looked  no 
longer  through  the  tortured  medium  of  his  imagined 
guilt.  But  suddenly  she  remembered,  and  scourged 
herself  again  with  belief  in  his  baseness  and  dis 
honor. 

"You  could  be  good  to  him,"  she  said.  The  words 
were  wrung  from  her  as  a  wild  and  bitter  cry  of  pain. 
"  You  could  be  good  and  honorable  with  him.  Nature 
made  you  so  in  the  beginning,  I  think.  Why  have 
you  made  yourself  unmanly,  and  base,  and  cruel  ?  What 
is  man  ?  What  is  life  ?  What  is  the  power  above  us, 
since  such  things  can  be  ?  " 

A  dark  flush  rose  suddenly  to  Dick's  face,  and  then 
he  grew  very  pale. 

"  Have  you  not  been  a  little  hasty  in  assuming  that 
they  are?"  he  asked,  and  turned  to  leave  her. 

But  she  moved  nearer  to  him,  trembling.  "  Look  at 
me,"  she  cried,  "look  at  me." 

He  paused,  and  let  her  search  his  face  trait  by  trait, 
while  he  stood  motionless.  High  purpose  she  found 
there,  and  proud  endurance,  and  austerity,  but  no  line 
of  baseness  or  of  yielding.  For  an  instant  the  memory 
of  her  husband's  face  came  to  her,  and  she  recognized 
its  commonplaceness,  its  lines  of  weak  evasion. 

Then  her  eyes  came  back  to  Dick's,  and  she  looked 
393 


THE   EVASION 

through  them  into  his  spirit.  She  looked  long,  and  Dick 
understood,  though  he  gave  no  sign. 

"  Was  it  a  mistake?"  she  whispered,  and  then  she 
put  out  her  hand  and  touched  him. 

"  Dick,"  she  said,  "  Dick !  "  A  sob  broke  in  her 
throat. 

In  his  soul  there  went  up  a  loud  shout  of  triumph, 
but  he  only  gathered  her  hands  into  his  and  bowed  his 
head  over  them. 

"  Dick  —  can  you  forgive  me  ?  "  — 

He  kissed  the  hands.  "  Child  —  child !  "  he  said 
brokenly. 

Her  face,  stilled  with  wonder,  was  lifted  to  his.  "  I 
cannot  understand  —  I  cannot  believe  —  are  we  alive  ? 
Is  it  you  —  your  hands  —  your  eyes  —  yourself?  Am  I 
dreaming?  or  have  I  waked?  Look  at  me!  There  are 
tears  in  your  eyes!  Have  you  loved  me  so  well,  then, 
while  I  —  while  I  —  My  heart  was  breaking  because 
I  thought  you  were  unworthy  of  my  love.  Think  of  it, 
Dick — and  all  the  time  the  shame  was  mine  for  doubt 
ing  you  —  the  shame  was  mine!  Can  you  forgive?" 

"Hush  — Hush!" 

And  then  suddenly  she  broke  into  wild  and  breath 
less  sobbing. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

ON    THE    SANDS 

HE  next  morning  she  met  Dick  on  the  sands  under 
the  cliff. 

"  Is  it  you  ?  "  she  asked  ;  and  again,  "  Is  it  you  ?  I 
feel  immortality  once  more.  You  have  given  me  new 
senses,  new  heart,  new  soul.  The  sky  is  not  the  same, 
nor  the  wind,  nor  the  smell  of  the  sea."  The  face  she 
lifted  to  his  was  transfigured. 

"  My  love,  my  love  !  "  he  said. 

Land  and  sea  were  shrouded  in  a  warm  mist,  tender 
and  luminous  with  suggestions  of  violet  and  rose,  and 
out  of  it  the  waves  sprawled  lazily  upon  the  sands. 

He  brought  her  rugs  and  cushions  to  make  her 
comfortable  among  the  rocks. 

"  Nature  is  friendly,"  he  said.  "  She  has  sent  her 
vapors  to  wrap  us  about  warm  and  close.  Why  must 
I  sit  so  far  away  from  you  ?  Have  I  not  been  away 
long  enough  ?  and  far  enough  ?  All  night  I  would  not 
have  slept  if  I  could  —  and  I  could  not  —  for  thinking 
of  you.  There  were  times  when  you  seemed  to  me  a 
creature  all  of  flame  and  wind  and  spirit.  I  wondered 
that  a  man  would  dare  to  touch  you  or  call  you  his. 
And  now  —  now  that  you  are  at  my  side,  you  are  still  a 
miracle  to  be  worshiped,  and  it  is  evident  that  substances 

395 


THE   EVASION 

above  this  earth  of  clay  must  have  gone  to  the  making 
of  you ;  but  you  are  also  the  woman  I  love,  and  I  shall 
not  always  sit  an  arm's  length  away." 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  as  it  lay  on  the 
warm  sand.  "Dear,"  she  said,  and  in  the  word  was 
gathered  all  the  unuttered  tenderness  of  her  life.  His 
eyes  grew  misty  under  the  ineffable  caress  of  it. 

"  Yesterday  I  was  body,  to-day  I  am  spirit,  and  no 
thing  can  overcome  me  any  more.  Yesterday  my  nature 
stooped  to  meet  love,  to-day  the  uttermost  reaches  of  my 
being  are  not  high  enough  for  it.  All  night  I  could 
not  sleep  for  the  wonder  of  it,  and  then  —  look  away, 
Dick,  or  I  shall  be  ashamed  to  tell  —  I  thought  of  the 
dear,  familiar  little  things  that  I  had  not  dared  to  think 
of  all  these  years.  I  remembered  the  way  your  hair  used 
to  grow  back  from  your  left  temple,  and  I  thought  that 
I  could  not  wait  till  day  to  see  if  it  grew  so  still."  She 
laughed,  with  tears  on  her  lashes. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  after  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  After  that  I  could  think  only  of  that  which  under 
neath  I  shall  think  of  always  —  of  the  injustice  —  the 
wrong  I  have  done  you."  Her  voice  broke.  "  And  it 
was  Arthur." 

He  was  silent. 

"  You  need  not  answer,  because  I  know." 

"  How  did  you  know  at  last  that  it  was  not  I?  " 

"  It  came  to  me  when  you  came  yourself  —  without 
disguise.  Since  that  dreadful  night  years  ago  we  have 
always  met  with  the  consciousness  of  this  thing  between 
us.  It  was  in  your  face,  your  eyes,  your  voice.  There  was 

396 


ON  THE   SANDS 

always  restraint,  and  your  acceptance  of  my  understand 
ing.  You  were  never  yourself  till  yesterday,  when  you 
refused  further  admittance  of  this  grotesque  thing.  And 
if  you  had  come  to  me  at  any  time  during  these  years,  and 
stood  by  me,  and  looked  and  spoken  as  you  did  then, 
why,  I  should  have  understood,  Dick.  You  would  not 
have  needed  to  tell  me  that  you  were  not  guilty.  I 
should  have  known,  as  I  knew  last  night,  from  your  be 
ing  yourself.  But  you  never  came,  you  never  came  "  — 

"  Had  I  known  you  loved  me  I  should  have  come," 
he  said.  "  No  earthly  power  could  have  stood  between 
us  then.  It  was  I,  after  all,  who  was  the  dull,  dense  sod, 
unillumined  by  any  spark  at  all,  since  I  could  live  in 
the  same  world  with  your  love  for  me  and  never  know 
of  it." 

They  spoke  of  the  future.  "By  the  time  the  law 
has  freed  you  from  him  utterly,  I  know  that  I  can  be 
in  the  way  of  making  enough  to  support  us,"  said 
Dick.  "  It 's  only  the  beastly  reputation  I  have  which 
makes  me  feel  as  though  I  should  have  run  away  yes 
terday  as  soon  as  I  began  to  suspect  that  you  were 
finding  out  I  was  n't  quite  the  blackguard  you  thought. 
For  myself,  it  doesn't  matter.  Hostile  circumstance 
braces  me,  and  I  will  wade  chin-deep  in  it  without  com 
plaint  ;  but  I  can't  endure  to  think  that  you  should  be 
touched  by  the  fringe  of  the  tide." 

"  There  is  something  that  I  must  tell  you,  Dick  — 
something  that  I  must  tell  you  now." 

Her  voice  stung  him  to  nameless  alarm,  and  he  saw 
that  she  had  grown  pale. 

397 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  have  not  told  you  all  I  thought  of  last  night," 
she  continued,  without  meeting  his  eyes. 

"  What  else  was  there  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  —  I  am  afraid  to  tell  you."  She  shiv 
ered,  even  as  he  drew  her  hands  firmly  into  his. 

"  Gladys,  what  is  there  in  life  that  you  should  be 
afraid  to  tell  me?" 

"  Only  this  one  thing." 

"  Little  girl,  little  sweetheart,"  —  he  laughed  uncer 
tainly,  —  "  what  foolishness  is  this  ?  " 

"  It  is  no  foolishness.  I  meant  that  we  should  have 
our  morning,  but  I  must  tell  you  now." 

"  Tell  me,  then,  but  look  at  me  first  —  so.  Now,  with 
your  hands  and  eyes  in  mine,  tell  what  you  thought 
of  between  four  and  five  —  or  was  it  between  five  and 
six  o'clock  —  this  morning  ?  " 

The  pallor  of  her  face  was  almost  luminous,  and  under 
his  gaze  Dick  saw  pain  and  entreaty  grow  in  her  eyes. 

"  Dick,  yesterday,  before  you  came  to  me  on  the  cliff, 
I  thought  that  you  were  unworthy  of  a  good  woman's 
love,  and  yet  you  had  mine  wholly.  And  because  you 
were  unworthy,  love  so  shackled  me  to  dishonor  and 
shame  that  if  you  had  said  to  me,  '  Come,'  I  would 
have  gone  to  you  in  any  way  or  to  any  place  you 
wished.  And  to-day  I  know  you  for  one  to  the  loving 
of  whom  a  woman  must  bring  the  best  she  has,  and 
because  of  this  —  I  must  go  back  to  Arthur." 

He  did  not  speak,  and  for  some  moments  his  eyes 
held  hers  blankly  and  without  understanding.  Then 
very  slowly  he  released  her  hands. 

398 


ON  THE   SANDS 

"This  is  foolishness,  indeed,"  he  began  roughly. 
"  I  '11  hear  no  more  of  it." 

"  Dick  —  you  must  listen  —  you  must  understand." 

"  Which  of  us  is  mad  ?  "  he  said.  "  Would  you  mind 
saying  it  over  again  ?  " 

She  repeated  her  words  as  nearly  as  she  could,  and 
Dick  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

"  I  was  a  bad  fellow  yesterday,  and  so  you  would  have 
gone  with  me.  I  am  a  fairly  decent  one  to-day,  and  so 
you  will  not  go  —  is  that  it  ?  You  will  admit  the  para 
dox  to  be  startling  just  at  first."  But  then,  with  a  ges 
ture  that  seemed  to  sweep  it  all  away,  he  knelt  in  the 
sand  at  her  side,  and  took  her  hands  into  his  again. 

"  Dear  heart,  you  cannot  do  this  thing  to  yourself  or 
to  me.  Of  that  I  am  sure.  But  let  us  talk  it  over.  No, 
leave  me  your  hands  —  I  will  be  perfectly  good  and 
reasonable.  I  can  be,  you  know,  when  I  choose.  I  was 
good  one  day,  long  ago,  on  the  beach,  when  I  promised 
to  be  —  do  you  remember,  sweetheart  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  you  can  understand  if  you  will." 

"  I  admit  that  I  don't  want  to  understand,"  he  an 
swered,  forcing  a  smile.  "There  is  some  mistake  of 
reasoning  and  conscience  somewhere,  so  let  us  clear  it 
away." 

Gladys  spoke  with  difficulty,  and  her  eyes,  wide, 
pure,  appealing  as  a  child's,  were  fixed  on  his. 

"  Why  do  you  owe  allegiance  to  Arthur  Davenport 
to-day  that  you  would  have  withheld  from  him  yester 
day  ?  "  he  began,  with  determined  patience. 

"  Yesterday,  because  I  believed  that  love  did  violence 
399 


THE   EVASION 

and  shame  to  my  nature,  and  possessed  me  against  my 
will,  and  all  the  strength  of  my  soul,  there  seemed  no 
good  thing  in  life.  I  was  degraded  by  forces  outside 
myself.  Right  and  wrong  did  not  matter.  But  to-day, 
just  because  I  love  you  with  heart,  brain,  and  soul, 
there  is  a  divine  obligation  on  me  to  do  nothing  un 
worthy.  A  woman  cannot  bring  to  her  love  anything 
less  than  the  best  that  she  has." 

"  Nor  a  man." 

"  And  because  love  is  so  great  and  wonderful  I  know 
there  is  something  greater  still,  something  that  makes 
life  significant  and  beautiful,  even  if  it  is  not  happy.  I 
could  have  done  wrong  for  the  love  that  degraded  me. 
I  cannot  do  wrong  for  the  one  which  lifts  me." 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  wish  you  to  do  wrong  ?  "  Dick 
put  the  question  with  the  precarious  gentleness  one 
may  use  to  a  child  whose  caprice  threatens  a  life.  "  Can 
you  think  that,  sweetheart  ?  " 

"No,  Dick.   No." 

"  Then  let  us  come  to  the  actual  point.  Are  you  un 
willing  to  dissolve  your  marriage  vows  ?  Do  you  think 
of  legal  marriage  as  anything  but  a  makeshift,  a  human 
institution  ?  " 

"  No,  but  it  is  the  best  we  have  —  the  only  one  that 
keeps  civilized  humanity  from  chaos,  that  attempts  to 
preserve  purity  and  faith ;  and  as  such  we  must  guard 
it  sacredly." 

"  And  is  this  conscience  of  yours  so  stern  that  you 
would  guard  the  form  of  marriage  after  the  violation  of 
its  purity  and  faith  ?  " 

400 


ON  THE   SANDS 

"No." 

"  And  has  not  Arthur,  of  his  own  independent  act, 
broken  his  vows  ?  " 

"  It  was  I  —  it  was  I  who  made  him  break  them." 

"  This  is  madness !  "  he  said  violently. 

"  Listen,  Dick  "  - 

"  Child  !  child !  you  cannot  hurt  our  lives  so  fatally 
for  a  morbid  belief  like  this !  " 

"  Listen !  "  she  cried  entreatingly. 

The  struggle  was  beginning  to  tell  on  them  both,  and 
her  breath  came  quickly. 

"  I  married  Arthur  because  of  what  he  could  give  me 
and  my  family,  and  he  married  me  loving  me  as  truly 
and  as  wholly  as  it  was  in  him  to  do.  He  was  never  vi 
cious,  he  never  cared  for  vice  for  its  own  sake,  he  was 
only  weak ;  and  if  I  had  loved  him  a  little  I  could  have 
kept  him  a  true  husband  and  a  good  man.  But  I  loved 
you,  Dick,  you !  I  had  nothing  for  my  husband  who 
brought  me  his  best,  and  from  whom  I  took  all.  And 
then  this  woman  came  to  him  with  what  he  knew  I  could 
not  give.  When  she  came  I  was  glad,  for  his  love  was 
a  burden  to  me,  and  I  tried  to  think  that  he  had  trans 
ferred  it,  but  all  the  time  I  knew  better.  There  came 
a  day  at  last  when  he  asked  me  if  I  loved  you,  and  I 
told  him  the  truth.  The  next  night  he  went  away  with 
Diana,  and  I  was  glad  when  I  heard  it,  and  told  myself 
that  now  at  last  I  had  proof  that  he  had  ceased  to  care ; 
but  all  the  time  I  knew  that  it  was  not  so,  I  knew  that 
he  had  only  gone  to  her  because  of  his  misery  and  des 
peration.  Then  came  the  accident;  — Dick,  be  patient 

401 


THE   EVASION 

with  me,  my  heart  is  breaking ;  —  at  first  they  thought 
he  would  die,  but  now  he  will  live,  and  he  will  never 
walk  again.  Did  you  know  that  ? " 

Yes,  Dick  knew. 

"  They  began  to  speak  of  my  going  to  him,  and  again 
I  deceived  myself  and  said  that  he  did  not  want  me,  and 
again,  though  I  would-  not  admit  it,  I  knew  that  he  did. 
One  day  he  wrote  me  a  letter.  He  wrote  it  when  he  was 
purified  by  pain  and  despair,  and  I  see  now  that  he  in 
tended  me  to  marry  you;  but  after  that  I  no  longer 
tried  to  think  he  did  not  care  for  me,  only  I  told  myself 
that  even  if  he  did,  that  if  he  died  wanting  me,  I  would 
never  go  back.  Life  still  had  no  beauty  or  meaning ; 
and  that  day  —  that  very  day  —  you  came.  Dear,  if  you 
could  ever  know  what  that  was,  how  the  world  swung 
into  rhythm  again  and  I  felt  the  consciousness  of  that 
which,  if  not  the  God  of  human  religions,  is  the  life 
above  our  life,  a  timeless  spirit  which  was  before  stars 
were  hung,  which  is  the  beauty  beyond  our  beauty,  the 
truth  and  love  beyond  our  truth  and  love,  dear,"  — 
her  face  was  white  and  transparent  with  spiritual  pas 
sion  as  she  put  out  her  hand  to  him,  —  "you  would  not 
have  me  do  anything  for  you  which  could  drag  us  down ; 
and  so  —  and  so,  I  must  go  back  to  my  poor  husband 
and  take  care  of  him  as  long  as  he  lives." 

His  face  was  growing  haggard  and  desolate. 

"  This  that  I  ask  of  you  is  not  wrong,"  he  said. 

"  Could  we  be  happy  with  that  wrecked  life  between 
us?" 

"But  the  life  is  not  between  us.  Listen  to  me, 
402 


ON  THE   SANDS 

Gladys,  as  I  have  listened  to  you.  His  life  is  not  be 
tween  us.  He  came  there  by  his  own  cowardice  and 
treachery,  and  by  the  same  faults  he  has  put  himself 
beyond  us.  By  the  law  of  men,  of  nature,  of  your  God, 
you  are  mine.  Little  girl,  do  you  not  understand  ?  " 

He  spoke  with  grave  tenderness ;  but  he  was  begin 
ning  to  breathe  hard,  as  a  man  who  is  fighting  for  his 
life  in  a  losing  game. 

"  It  cannot  be,"  she  said.  "  I  have  ruined  my  hus 
band,  and  I  must  stand  by  him  to  the  end." 

Then  Dick  felt  the  bonds  of  his  self-control  bursting 
like  rotten  rope. 

"  And  what  of  his  unworthiness  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What 
of  his  dishonor  which  took  you  from  me  ?  What  of  his 
silence  which  held  you  during  those  years  of  marriage  ? 
You  say  that  he  has  loved  you ;  but  I  —  what  of  my 
love?" 

She  cried  out  as  though  he  had  hurt  her. 

"  And  you  pretend  that  you  will  put  it  aside  as  a 
useless  garment,  and  you  think  that  I  will  submit? 
This  is  my  answer."  He  swept  her  into  his  arms. 
"This  — and  this!" 

His  strength,  resistless  as  a  great  flood,  conquered 
her,  then  surrounded  and  wooed  her  with  obliterating 
tenderness,  and  she  lay  for  a  while,  a  deep  and  pas 
sionate  content  possessing  her  utterly.  But  presently, 
with  both  hands  against  his  chest,  she  lifted  her  head 
and  looked  at  him. 

"  Dick,  how  far  would  you  care  to  take  me,  if  I 
could  be  won  against  my  conscience  —  by  this?  " 

403 


THE  EVASION 

He  let  her  slip  through  his  arms  then. 

"  You  mean  that  mine  is  the  strength  of  the  brute, 
and  may  not  prevail,"  he  murmured. 

"  Dear  —  would  you  have  it  otherwise  ?  " 

"No."  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead,  and 
spoke  slowly,  brokenly.  "No.  It  was  a  cowardly 
means  to  use,  —  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"My  love!  My  love!"  she  cried,  triumphant  and 
tremulous  between  laughter  and  tears.  "  Ah,  I  could 
not  do  less  than  go  back  to  him,  since  I  must  live  to 
be  worthy  of  you." 

He  turned,  and  walked  from  her  to  the  edge  of  the 
tide  where  he  stood  a  while,  dim  and  unsubstantial 
through  the  mist.  When  he  returned  she  saw  that 
his  face  was  set  for  conflict. 

"  The  whole  thing  is  utterly  wrong,"  he  said.  "  We 
will  talk  it  over  again."  He  spoke  with  a  grim,  deter 
mined  calm,  though  breathing  quickly.  "  It  was  his 
contemptible  act  that  separated  us  in  the  beginning.  It 
was  through  his  cowardice  that  he  won  you  for  his  wife 
and  held  you.  Are  these  things  true  ?  " 

"Dick"- 

"  Are  these  things  true  ?  " 

"  They  are  true." 

"  And  his  last  act  of  dishonor  has  given  you  back 
your  freedom.  What  answer  can  you  give  me  to 
this  ?  " 

"  The  last  act  of  dishonor  was  my  fault." 

"  Your  fault "  — 

"Mine — mine!  " 

404 


ON  THE   SANDS 

She  was  kneeling  on  the  sand  at  his  feet,  supporting 
herself  with  her  hand  on  a  rock. 

"  I  thought  that  I  had  explained — I  must  try  to  do 
it  —  better,"  she  said ;  and  with  her  words  beginning 
to  break  into  sobs  she  struggled  again  through  the 
wrongs  and  failures  of  her  marriage. 

"  I  took  everything  and  gave  nothing,"  she  said  at 
last.  "  I  gave  nothing,  because  I  was  yours,  Dick  — 
yours  —  as  I  am  to-day,  as  I  shall  always  be  in  this 
life  —  and  after.  I  took  his  money  and  his  life  and 
assumed  a  solemn  obligation  in  return,  and  I  betrayed 
it.  I  have  ruined  him.  But  for  my  indifference  and 
neglect  he  would  have  been  a  loyal  husband,  and  be 
cause  of  me  this  rest  of  his  life  is  to  be  lived  in  pain 
and  helplessness.  I  must  stand  by  and  save  and  com 
fort  what  is  left  to  him  of  life." 

"  And  do  I  count  for  nothing  ?  " 

He  stood  above  her  with  accusing  lips,  and  strug 
gling  with  her  sobs  she  crept  nearer  to  him,  putting  up 
her  hand  to  him  in  despairing  appeal,  but  with  an 
untamed,  unconquered  spirit  shining  in  her  eyes. 

"  One  reads  about  women  who  long  to  immolate 
themselves,"  he  said.  "  You  are  evidently  one  of  them. 
You  think  only  of  your  own  fault  —  why  not  consider 
his  ?  It  must  be  a  question  with  you  of  an  excessive 
desire  for  immolation,  and  quite  incidentally,  of  course, 
I  am  crushed  along  with  you." 

"  Dick  —  you  are  killing  me !  " 

Then  he  lay  down  beside  her  on  the  sand,  and  hid 
his  tortured  face  on  his  arms. 

405 


THE   EVASION 

"  It  is  not  that  I  forget  his  fault,  but  my  obligation 
to  him  outweighs  it,"  she  said  hopelessly.  "  It  is  be 
cause  of  me  he  is  disgraced,  and  that  the  rest  of  his 
life  he  must  suffer  and  be  crippled." 

He  did  not  answer  ;  and  after  a  while  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  and  touched  his  hair. 

"  Dear  boy  —  dear  love,"  she  murmured  brokenly. 

In  the  tenderness  of  her  voice  was  such  a  poignant, 
ineffable  expression  of  her  love  that  it  followed  him 
into  the  years,  and  feeling  that  it  must  live  with  him 
beyond  the  grave  almost  conquered  his  belief  in  mor 
tality. 

Without  raising  himself  he  drew  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  and  she  felt  his  face  hot  and  wet  with  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

RENUNCIATION 

RED  MORRISON  and  Mr.  Murray  discussed 
Dick's  presence  in  the  region  that  had  been  the  scene 
of  his  disgrace. 

"  It 's  like  his  damned  impudence,"  said  Mr. 
Murray. 

Fred  Morrison  looked  unsympathetic. 

"  I  watched  him  at  the  funeral,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am 
bound  to  admit  that  I  never  saw  any  one  look  less  like 
a  cad.  If  we  had  n't  been  so  sure  that  he  cheated  at 
cards  it  would  have  been  easy  enough  to  discredit  the 
other  reports.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  there  has  n't 
been  some  mistake." 

"  There 's  only  one  other  who  could  have  done  it," 
protested  Mr.  Murray. 

"  And  that 's  a  man  who  recently  ran  away  from  his 
wife ! " 

"  But  every  one  knows  that  his  wife  was  to  blame." 

"  There  are  two  opinions  about  his  wife." 

"  From  what  I  hear  there  must  be  several."  Mr. 
Murray  laughed  as  he  spoke. 

"  Mrs.  Davenport  wishes  to  speak  with  you,  sir,"  an 
nounced  the  butler. 

"  Mrs.  Who  ?  " 

407 


THE   EVASION 

"  She  said  Davenport,  sir." 

"  I  must  apologize  for  the  intrusion,"  said  Gladys, 
standing  in  the  doorway.  "  But  I  understood  that  Mr. 
Morrison  was  with  you,  and  so,  as  I  wished  to  speak  to 
him  also,  I  came  in  directly." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Davenport,  this  is  an  unexpected 
honor !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Murray,  with  an  anxious  cor 
diality  induced  by  fear  that  she  might  have  overheard 
his  last  remarks. 

Both  men  were  conscious  of  a  change  in  her.  The 
black-robed  figure  with  the  pale,  pure  face  subdued  them 
oddly,  and  it  was  as  though  a  strain  of  music,  grave, 
tender,  and  lovely,  had  entered  the  room  with  her. 

"  I  am  especially  fortunate  in  finding  Mr.  Morrison 
with  you,"  she  began  ;  "  for  I  wished  to  speak  to  you 
both,  and  as  I  have  little  time  I  will  begin  at  once. 
You  remember,  and  you  also,  Mr.  Murray,  a  certain 
game  of  poker  played  in  our  club  here  some  years  ago, 
and  for  cheating  in  which  Mr.  Copeland  was  expelled 
in  disgrace." 

"  Permit  me  to  correct  you,  Mrs.  Davenport ;  he 
was  requested  to  resign.  As  chief  actor  in  the  trans 
action  I  wish  it  to  be  so  understood." 

"  Thank  you.  I  had  forgotten  the  detail.  Since  that 
day  he  has  suffered  more  or  less  directly  from  the  ef 
fects  of  his  supposed  action,  and  quite  recently  it  has 
interfered  seriously  with  his  career  and  means  of  earn 
ing  a  livelihood.  I  have  come  here  to-day  to  say  that 
Mr.  Copeland  was  not  the  man  who  cheated." 

There  was  a  pause. 

408 


RENUNCIATION 

"Are  you  quite  sure  of  this?"  asked  Mr.  Murray, 
with  visible  annoyance ;  "  and  is  it  not  far  from  —  er  — 
wise  to  rake  up  the  subject  in  any  way  after  this  dis 
tance  of  time?" 

"  Not  while  the  results  of  the  story  are  cruelly  injur 
ing  an  innocent  man.  It  is  to  my  husband  that  the 
blame  belongs." 

Both  men  gave  a  suppressed  exclamation,  and  to  one 
of  them  her  words  suggested  an  ugly  suspicion.  He 
had  seen  Dick  and  Gladys  alone  on  the  cliffs  the  day 
of  the  funeral,  and  her  unforgiving  attitude  towards 
her  husband  was  well  known. 

Fred  Morrison  suspended  judgment. 

"  The  circumstances  have  only  just  come  to  my  know 
ledge,"  she  continued  quietly,  "  but  it  may  not  be  too 
late  for  us  to  render  justice.  For  the  present  I  can 
only  give  you  my  word  that  injustice  has  been  done. 
If  necessary,  my  husband  will  confirm  my  assertion." 

Mr.  Murray  cleared  his  throat.  "  It  is  a  very  delicate 
and  unpleasant  matter,"  he  said.  "  And  we  must  speak 
with  entire  frankness.  Have  I  not  understood  that  you 
and  Mr.  Davenport  were  —  ahem  " 

Gladys  paused  a  moment  to  gather  the  full  meaning 
of  his  suspicion,  and  then  she  spoke  again  with  un 
changed  voice  and  manner. 

"  My  husband  is  very  ill,  as  you  know.  I  am  on  my 
way  to  the  station  now.  I  hope  to  see  him  within  a  few 
hours,  and  if  he  is  strong  enough  we  shall  go  South  for 
the  winter.  But  I  may  not  be  able  to  speak  to  him  on 
this  subject  just  yet,  and  if  you  could  make  a  general 

409 


THE   EVASION 

announcement  of  the  injustice  done  to  Mr.  Copelaiid 
without  bringing  my  poor  husband  to  the  pain  and 
humiliation  of  immediate  confession,  I  —  we  —  should 
both  be  most  grateful  to  you.  If  you  cannot  do  this, 
Mr.  Davenport  will  give  you  a  personal  confirmation 
of  my  statement  as  soon  as  his  health  permits  him  to 
do  so." 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  wish  me  to  make  a 
public  declaration  of  this  act  of  Mr.  Davenport's  ?  " 

"  If  such  a  course  is  necessary  to  clear  the  name  of 
an  innocent  man.  But  I  am  hoping  that  my  husband 
need  not  be  mentioned  in  this  connection." 

"  It  is  an  exceedingly  unpleasant  business,"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Murray,  rising  and  walking  about  the  room. 

"  There  is  one  man  who  must  have  found  it  so  for 
many  years,"  said  Gladys  quietly. 

"  And  it  makes  us  look  like  a  rare  set  of  fools." 

She  rose  and  held  out  her  hand.  "  But  you  are  not 
to  think  of  that,  or  of  anything  but  of  ending  a  most 
unfortunate  and  cruel  injustice,"  she  said ;  "  and  you 
are  going  to  help  me,  are  you  not  ?  I  am  sure  that  you 
will,  and  you  also,  Mr.  Morrison.  For  any  reluctance 
on  your  part  to  make  the  truth  well  known  will  only 
precipitate  and  assure  the  necessity  for  a  personal  con 
fession  on  the  part  of  my  husband." 

"  If  it  comes  to  the  necessity  of  a  personal  admission 
of  his  —  er  —  guilt,  is  it  not  possible  that  your  husband 
will  refuse  to  make  it  ? " 

"No.  I  can  answer  you  this  with  absolute  confi 
dence." 

410 


RENUNCIATION 

"  Is  Copeland  aware  of  what  you  are  doing  for  him  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Shall  you  tell  him  that  a  movement  is  on  foot  to 
clear  his  name  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  see  Mr.  Copeland  again." 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  say,"  Fred  Morrison  assured  her 
gravely.  "  And  may  I  not  express  my  admiration  for 
your  courage  and  justice  ?  " 

She  smiled  faintly.  "  Perhaps  it  does  not  require  as 
much  courage  as  you  think,  and  I  am  sure  that  the  dif 
ficult  thing  for  all  of  us  would  be  to  remain  silent  now 
that  we  know  the  truth." 

Both  men  went  with  her  to  her  carriage,  and  sought 
to  hide  their  gravity  and  concern  under  polite  common 
places. 

The  cold  light  of  an  autumn  afternoon  flooded  the 
hospital  room  in  which  Arthur  lay  on  the  day  when 
his  wife  returned  to  him,  and  she  stood  afraid  before 
the  awful  emaciation  of  his  face.  He  held  her  hand 
and  looked  at  her  while  his  lips  quivered  boyishly. 

"  They  tell  me  you  are  coming  back  to  stay,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  was  hoarse  and  fallen.  It  seemed  the 
perilously  unsubstantial  echo  of  a  man  that  lay  straight 
and  still  between  the  sheets.  "  They  tell  me  you  are 
coming  back  to  stay.  Is  it  true  ?  " 

"  Do  you  want  me  ?  " 

The  quivering  lips  passed  beyond  his  control ;  but 
his  eyes,  unnaturally  brilliant  from  pain  and  fever, 
answered  her  eloquently. 

411 


THE   EVASION 

"  I  never  loved  Diana,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  I  know  "  — 

"  But  I  don't  deserve  this  —  I  never  thought" 

"Hush.  If  you  talk  too  much  they  will  send  me 
away." 

His  famished  eyes  devoured  her  face.  "  And  you  are 
really  coming  back  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  To  stay  !  It  is  wonderful !  "  he  murmured,  and 
sighed,  full  of  contentment.  Then  he  fingered  her  black 
dress  feebly.  "  Who  is  dead  ?  "  he  asked,  and  while 
she  was  wondering  if  it  would  be  safe  to  tell  him  he 
seemed  to  read  her  thought. 

"  It  will  be  all  right  to  tell  me,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not 
mind  who  is  in  the  world  now  that  you  have  come  back. 
You  are  sure  that  you  mean  to  stay  —  always  ? "  he 
reiterated  childishly. 

She  told  him  so  again. 

"  I  like  to  hear  you  tell  me  so,"  he  said.  "  I  never 
thought  you  would  come,  —  even  to-day  when  they  told 
me,  —  that  your  letter  was  not  a  dream.  At  ten  o'clock 
they  came  to  give  me  a  shave  for  the  first  time  since  I 
have  been  ill,  for  I  did  not  want  you  to  find  me  too 
much  changed ;  but  I  was  afraid  to  have  them  do  it.  I 
was  afraid  that  if  I  shaved  you  would  not  come,  just  as 
it  does  n't  rain  if  you  take  out  an  umbrella.  At  twelve 
they  came  again,  but  I  sent  them  away,  for  I  was  still 
afraid.  At  one  I  thought  that  you  must  have  sent  word 
that  you  had  changed  your  mind,  and  I  made  some  one 
go  to  the  office  to  find  out.  They  brought  back  word 

412 


RENUNCIATION 

that  you  had  left  the  hotel,  so  then  I  let  them  take  off 
my  beard.  Am  I  much  changed  ?  Did  you  think  to 
find  me  so  ill  ?  " 

"  I  knew  that  you  had  been  very,  very  ill,  but  you 
are  going  to  get  better  now." 

"  I  shall  never  be  well,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  want 
to  go  away  if  I  am  never  worth  anything  again  ?  " 

"  No,  no." 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ?  " 

"  Only  to  take  off  my  hat." 

"  Don't  go  far ;  don't  go  where  I  can't  see  you,  for  I 
can't  turn  round  to  look  after  you  yet.  Is  n't  it  ridicu 
lous  for  a  great,  strong  man  like  me  not  to  be  able  to 
turn  over  alone  ?  There  is  something  wrong  with  my 
lung,  too,  and  that  is  what  will  kill  me  in  the  end. 
They  say  that  I  shall  have  to  live  in  the  South.  Will 
you  stay  if  we  have  always  to  live  in  the  South  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  foolish  boy,"  she  said. 

After  that  he  was  silent  for  some  time,  and  seemed 
to  sleep,  while  his  wife  watched  his  face  in  the  pitiless 
light  of  his  white-walled  room,  and  knew  with  inevit 
able  prescience  that  he  could  not  live  long.  Just  after 
sunset  he  awoke. 

"  It  is  wonderful  that  I  am  alive  and  that  you  are 
here,"  he  said,  and  he  looked  at  her  a  long  time  with 
out  speaking. 

"  You  have  changed,"  he  continued  finally.  "  You 
look  happier  than  I  have  ever  seen  you.  You  look  as 
though  you  were  happy  about  some  secret  thing." 

"  I  am  happy." 

413 


THE   EVASION 

He  waited  some  time  longer  before  further  speech, 
then  :  — 

"  Dick  never  did  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  know,"  she  answered  softly.  "  I  am  glad  you 
told  me." 

"  It  makes  you  think  better  of  me  ?  " 

"Yes."' 

"  I  wonder  how  I  dared  to  tell  you,"  he  continued.  "I 
never  should  have  if  I  had  not  stood  so  close  to  death. 
To  look  at  death  gives  one  more  courage  for  life." 

"  Have  you  nothing  else  to  tell  me  ? "  she  asked. 
She  felt  him  shiver  suddenly  and  put  out  her  hand  to 
quiet  him,  but  repeated  the  question  mercilessly. 

"  You  know  that,  too,  then,"  he  whispered. 

"Yes." 

"  And  yet  you  came  back !  " 

"  You  and  I  must  free  Richard  Copeland  from  this 
injustice." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  say  I  know  he  is  innocent  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  if  necessary  you  must  say  more.  Confes 
sion  would  be  the  only  way  for  you  to  win  back  respect 
for  yourself." 

"  That  is  just  what  Copeland  told  me  years  ago."  He 
spoke  as  though  musing  aloud,  and  lay  awhile  in  silence. 
At  last  he  sighed,  as  though  dismissing  the  subject. 

"  I  will  do  anything  you  like,"  he  said.  "  It  is  all 
the  same  while  you  stand  by.  I  did  not  answer  at  once 
because  I  was  wondering  why  I  was  so  willing  to  tell. 
The  ties  that  hold  a  man  to  the  world  seem  to  have  all 
loosened  for  me,  somehow.  Yes,  I  will  tell  the  truth  if 

414 


RENUNCIATION 

you  wish  it,  and  it  will  be  nice  to  think  things  are 
straight  again  with  poor  Copeland." 

Gladys  felt  his  hand  seeking  hers  in  the  dusk,  and 
when  he  found  it  he  sighed  again. 

"  Now  that  I  have  confessed,  perhaps  you  can  make 
a  fairly  decent  fellow  of  me  before  I  die,"  he  said. 

That  evening,  on  returning  to  her  home,  Gladys 
found  Dick's  last  message  to  her.  All  night  the  words 
of  it  sang  aloud  in  her  soul,  and  she  felt  that  her 
being  would  swing  to  the  meaning  of  them  while  the 
days  of  her  life  slipped  into  months,  and  the  months 
into  the  years  that  were  to  be  lived  without  him.  But 
she  knew  at  last  that  the  years  would  not  be  many. 

The  message  was  two  lines  of  poetry :  — 

"  I  shall  remember  while  the  light  yet  lives, 
And  in  the  darkness  I  shall  not  forget." 


fiibersibe 

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